A Christmas Gift To You
by ladyoftheknightley
Summary: 12 stories featuring 12 different pairings, all Christmas flavoured. 1: Neville/Hannah 2: James/Lily 3: George/Angelina 4: Ron/Hermione 5: Bill/Fleur 6: Ted/Andromeda 7. Percy/Audrey 8. Victoire/Teddy 9: Charlie & Tonks 10: Arthur/Molly 11: Harry and Ginny face their biggest challenge yet - present wrapping... 12: It's Christmas Day in the Auror Department.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all associated belongs to JK Rowling; the title of this piece comes from the song _Silver Bells_ (my favourite version is by The Supremes), and this fic is written for entertainment purposes only, with no profit being made by its author.

 **Notes:** As a thank you to everyone who reads, reviews, leaves comments, favourites or just generally likes my writing: a Christmas Gift From Me To You. 12 stories (posted every other day until Christmas Eve) with a festive theme and many different pairings, characters, eras etc. And an awful lot of tinsel. Because I really do appreciate every one of you, and can't quite believe people read what I write still. Here's the first - enjoy!

* * *

 **Dressed in Holiday Style | Neville/Hannah**

It started, as all great romances must, with a holly wreath.

Actually, it started with a holly wreath that was no longer wreath shaped and frankly had very little by way of holly attached to it. Ignoring Tom's protestations that it was only the first of December, and besides that wreath had been working very well on the door of the pub for the past thirty seven years thank you very much, Hannah went down to the stalls at the far end of Diagon Alley and bought the largest, most obnoxious new wreath she could find. She carried it up the Alley in front of her like a shield, almost decapitated several small children and a goblin with it in doing so, then hung it on a nail on the front door of the pub. As an inspired afterthought, she added a tartan bow and conjured three shiny red baubles to dangle from the bottom. Then she invited Tom to admire her handiwork.

"It looks like a pawn shop," he grumbled, eyeing the baubles. "And it's too early!"

"It's the first of December!" Hannah said. "We've got to start now if we want to entice the Christmas shoppers in for a drink. Think how many more customers you'll get if we make it seem like a cosy place to relax after the hustle and bustle of the shops—it'll be great, you'll see."

"I don't like customers," Tom said. "But I suppose we can always hope that a few of them get impaled on that monstrosity."

Hannah had been working with him long enough now to translate. "You can always try knocking a few out with the baubles," she suggested, and he brightened considerably.

"It's still only the first, though," he said. "Merlin only knows what this place'll look like by the twenty-fourth. A bloody forest, I've no doubt!"

Hannah had wanted to put a Christmas tree in the corner, but apart from that hadn't really considered much else by way of decoration. But his comment made her think, picturing winter wonderland scenes, snowy garlands, the deepest of greens contrasted with the brightest red berries... "I shouldn't have said that," Tom said, eyeing her sharply and sounding remarkably like Hagrid.

* * *

She knew she needed a like-minded individual to share her vision, so she sent him an owl. He turned up red in the face and breathless, jumper on inside out and scarf knotted around his waist. "What's the emergency?" he gasped, wand at the ready.

"It's about the Christmas decorations," she said. "I need to source as much holly as possible, a Christmas tree, and at least fifteen poinsettias. And probably a step ladder, though come to think of it, my Dad has one of those. So just the foliage, really. But I'll need another pair of hands, and you're the only person I could think of."

He rose magnificently to the occasion. "We can get some holly now, if you'd like?"

"The stall in the market?" Hannah said. "They did a good wreath, but they just don't have enough for what I want to do. And their prices are extortionate."

He shook his head. "No, I know somewhere far better. And it'll be free. Can you come?" Hannah nodded. "I'll apparate us."

Neville stretched out his arm, and she stepped forward to take it.

* * *

"Where are we?" she asked at once. They were standing in what was, she presumed, a garden, filled with bushes and trees most of which were bare and covered in a hard frost. It was sunny and clear, though, and they glittered and sparkled in the morning light, still beautiful despite their barrenness.

"My house," he said. "Well, Gran's house. The garden. Er, obviously. But there's a wood just over the stile down here, and it's filled with holly. You can take as much as you want."

"Is it yours?" she asked. She didn't know anyone who owned a wood.

"No," replied Neville, "it's publically owned. But I don't think anyone would object to you taking the holly—it's blocking the paths, anyway, so you'd be doing them a favour clearing them. Do you want some gloves, to protect your hands?"

Hannah glanced down at her yellow woollen mittens. "Yes, please," she said, and he led her to a shed, where he sorted out two pairs of gardening gloves and a large canvas.

"I'm glad you wrote to me," he said, "because I wanted to show you this." She followed him again, and he led her towards the fence at the bottom of the garden. Lining it were several thick shrubs, and as he pulled back their leaves, she gasped.

"Neville! What are they?" The flowers were shaped similarly to roses, but they were clear as cut glass and glistened more perfectly than any vase or ornament. She reached out a finger to touch one, but drew back, hesitant to damage it in anyway.

"It's okay," he said, "you can touch it, it will be okay. They're frost flowers. They bloom every morning if there's a frost, but—"

"Vanish as soon as it melts," Hannah replied. "I know, I've read about them. But I've never seen a real one before."

"They're very hard to cultivate," Neville agreed. "But they love this fence, it's so shady. I think they might be my favourite flower."

"Really?" Hannah asked. She was shocked by his pronouncement—not because it was unusual for a man of his age to admit to having a favourite flower, but because this was a big decision for someone who enjoyed Herbology as much as he did.

"I'm not sure yet," he said, "but they'd definitely be in my top three. What about you?"

Hannah smiled. "I've always said daffodils—normal ones, not Honking. I'm not a winter person, at all. I hate it. But when you get the first daffodils, it's like a promise, isn't it? Spring _will_ come, you just have to be patient."

Neville nodded. "Plus, they're yellow."

She laughed. "That, too. But now I've seen a frost flower in the flesh...I'm tempted to rethink."

He nodded again. "I get it," he said, and they studied them in companionable silence for a moment.

"I hate to rush you," he said, "but I've got to be in work by eleven, so we've only a couple of hours to get the holly."

"Of course," said Hannah. "I don't want you to be late. Let's go."

"You can come back and see them whenever you'd like," he promised.

"Whenever there's a frost," she said, and he nodded.

"I hope you like early mornings."

* * *

They gathered the holly together, throwing it on to the canvas Neville had found, then apparated their bundle back to London, leaving it around the side of the pub. "Where are you going to put it?" Neville asked, as she returned his gloves.

"I'm going to use sticking charms to attach it to the top of all the curtain rails and doorways, and so on," Hannah said. "Drape it over the top of all the bottles behind the bar, put some around the window frames, that sort of thing."

"It should look lovely," Neville smiled. "I'll come by and see, after work."

"That would be great," Hannah replied.

"So...yeah," Neville said. He scratched his head awkwardly. "I guess I'll see you...soon?"

"Yes. Soon. Soon is good," Hannah nodded. She looked away, frantically trying to think of something to say to let him know what a wonderful time she'd had with him, how grateful she was for him helping her find what she wanted, for showing her the frost flower. Every time she saw him, she felt so _right_ , so happy and it was always perfect—until they had to part. Then it was always awkward shuffling and pregnant pauses and excruciating moments where they both went the same way to leave, or said something really daft. Once, she'd held out her hand for him to shake, like they were concluding a business deal.

"Um...thanks for the holly," she managed, when it almost became unbearable.

"It's no trouble," Neville said. "It's not even mine to be giving, so...yeah. Anyway. I have to go to work."

"Yes, go! Leave now!" Hannah said, then realised she sounded like she wanted to be rid of him. "I mean, don't be late because of me, or anything."

He nodded stiffly. "Bye then!"

"See you later!"

"Yes, bye!

"Bye!"

After another few rounds of goodbyes, Neville rounded the corner onto Diagon Alley, and Hannah let out a long breath. They could _never_ get the end right.

* * *

"Hannah!" His excited shout made her jump, and she whirled around, fumbling with the glass she'd been holding. It almost slipped from her grasp, but quick reactions meant she caught it before it shattered on the ground. "Nicely done," he grinned.

"I'm very fast," she said, then added hurriedly, "I mean, not like that!" She caught his puzzled look, and realised he had no idea what she was talking about, and she mentally reversed, trying not to let her face flame. "Do you like the holly?"

"It looks very festive," he said. "You did a great job. I'm sorry I couldn't stop by yesterday, work was manic."

"It's fine, don't worry!" she started to reassure him.

"But I've found something that might make it up to you," he continued. "You said you wanted a Christmas tree? A stall's just opened at the bottom of Diagon Alley, near the Wheezes' shop, selling them, and there's one would be perfect for that corner there—not too bushy, but tall. Can you come and see it now?"

Hannah checked her watch. It was five thirty, but the pub was quiet. She could slip off for ten minutes... "Tom?" she called, and the proprietor looked up from his armchair. "Can you hold the fort if I pop out for ten minutes? There's something I need to pick up."

He looked between her and Neville, and she tried not to blush again. "Make it five."

She grinned. "Thanks Tom!" She followed Neville out onto Diagon Alley. "How was work?" she asked, as they skirted around the crowds doing their Christmas shopping. The road was lit by thousands of tiny lights, Christmas decorations attached to lampposts and shop windows; by their brightness, she saw Neville pull a face.

"Not great," he said, "there's been...well, I can't really talk about it, but it's not great." She made sympathetic noises. "I'm not sure how much longer I want to stay an Auror, you know. I felt it was something that—well, it wasn't something I _chose_ , you know?" Hannah hummed gently. "So in the new year...well, I don't know..."

He was drifting, she realised. "What _do_ you want to do?"

"Honestly?" he asked, turning to look at her. "I've no idea. There's not one specific thing that...calls to me. But I do love plants. So something to do with Herbology would be lovely." She nodded. "When I found this tree, the one for the pub, it might sound stupid but I just felt so satisfied," he added. "It's just a tree, but I felt more accomplished, doing that, than I have at work for months."

"If it all goes to pot, I'll get you a job sorting out our beer garden," Hannah quipped, and then turned serious. "You shouldn't stick with something just because it's expected of you, if it doesn't make you happy. Lots of people—my Dad, my sister, Susan—think I'm wasting my time at the Leaky. They think I'm "just" a barmaid, that I could do so much more with my life. And maybe they're right, but for the first time since Mum died, I'm honestly happy," she said. "Yeah, I'm never gonna set the world on fire, so to speak. But I am doing something that I enjoy, and I'm lucky that it makes me enough money to live on to boot. Anything more than that is just greedy, right?"

He gave a small laugh. "I suppose," he said. "And there is part of me that wants to say 'bugger what anyone else wants, I'm going to study plants for the next fifty years'. But I feel I _should_ be doing something that's "worthwhile"."

Hannah watched him make air quotes, and slowed her pace. "But Nev...if it makes you happy, who's to say it's not worthwhile?"

He stopped then, and so did she, and she watched his face in the glow from the fairy lights. He looked young and vulnerable, but there was something in his face that made her think she'd seen him as an old man, and the thought at once made her feel full and calm, and panicked in case something happened before then. What if he got old, and she didn't know him then? They were simultaneously close, but not—she shared things with him, and suspected he did with her, that she couldn't tell anyone else, but at the same time, she'd never met his Grandmother, didn't even know his middle name. He knew her deepest fears, but not her birthday. She felt like he was her best friend, but then wondered how she could feel these things when, really, they'd only been talking properly since the summer. It wasn't even Christmas yet.

"I suppose you're right," he said, "I mean, I know you're right. But it just seems..." He drifted off, searching for the right words, and she waited patiently. "I just think," he began after a moment, sounding much more sure about himself, but before he could continue, a crowd of people pushed in between them, chattering and laughing, and as soon as they'd passed, he was hailed by a market seller.

"Have you come for the tree?"

"Yes, I've bought her," Neville called back. "Come on," he added to Hannah.

"What were you saying?" she asked, as they crossed the street.

"Nothing important," he said quickly.

"No, Nev, it's—"

"Look, here's your tree!" he interrupted. It was indeed an excellent specimen, and just the right height and shape for the place she'd had in mind for it. The seller immediately started pushing it on her, and Neville stood by as she haggled down the price until both parties were satisfied. He offered to wrap it for her, but she declined, levitating it off the ground and floating it back up the road by magic, with Neville walking in front like a sort of guard of honour.

"Do you like it?" he asked, as they passed George's shop.

"It's perfect," she replied at once. "And thank you for spotting it, I really do appreciate it. But Nev—what were you saying before?"

"It isn't important," he said, and she wished she could see his face. He sounded light-hearted and casual, but the look on his face before had troubled her. "Honestly, it's fine. Anyway: what're you going to do with the tree? Are you thinking modernist ice sculptures or what?"

Subtle or not, she could recognise a subject change when she heard one, so she played along, making him laugh by discussing evermore ridiculous decoration schemes. But when they got back to the Leaky, she pressed him again. "I promise you it's okay," he said. "I just had a bad day at work, that's all. Kind of to be expected, in my job..." He wouldn't meet her eye, and she couldn't think of what to say, and they hovered awkwardly outside the door again, neither wanting to continue—or halt—the conversation. "Look, I need to get back," he said, "I promised Gran I'd be there for dinner tonight, so I'd better dash. Do you need help getting the tree inside?"

"No thank you, I can manage," she said, bristling slightly at the sensation of being dismissed.

"Good," he said, "okay, good. That's good."

"It is," she agreed shortly. "Thanks again for spotting it. I'll see you soon!" She reversed inside the pub, using the tree to cover her burning face. She had the idea that if she could leave before the ending could become awkward, it wouldn't be awkward. But his half-hearted goodbye and quick pop of disapparition soon put paid to that idea.

* * *

She spent the night Not Thinking about Neville Longbottom. This took up most of the time she should have been sleeping, so she arrived at work the next day feeling miserable and tired and grouchy, spending most of the day making stupid mistakes. They hadn't argued. At least, she didn't think so. She was annoyed with him, yes, but she didn't really know why.

Okay. She did know why.

They'd spent months growing closer and closer, spending their free time together and just existing in the same space, doing things or just talking and it was _bliss_. She'd tried to convince herself, at first, that they were just friends, that this was purely platonic, but that hadn't lasted. She _like_ -liked him, as she and Susan used to say when they were second years, but he didn't seem to reciprocate those feelings. But then again, he didn't seem to _not_ reciprocate those feelings, either. She just wanted a sign, either way. And she was scared that their argument-but-not in Diagon Alley was a sign that he didn't like her as much, or in the same way.

It scared her almost as much as the fact that he might.

She dealt with it the only way she knew how: by continuing to Not Think about him all day. In fact, she was concentrating so hard on Not Thinking about him that he actually managed to appear in the pub, at the bar before she realised who it was. "Hello, Hannah," he said, cheerfully enough.

She responded on instinct, shrieking slightly in surprise and crashing backwards into the bottles. Fortunately, Tom had anticipated such things happening from time to time and placed an unbreakable charm on them, so all that happened was that they rattled and shook, rather than crashing to the ground. That didn't, however, stop the entire pub—and it felt like at least half the population of magical Britain were there to witness her embarrassing display—turning to look at the sound, and Hannah herself turning deep, deep red.

"You look positively festive," grinned Tom, who had reared his head to make sure his pub was still in one piece after the din had stopped. Hannah gave a high-pitched laugh, wishing the ground would open up and swallow her whole. "And so does your young man," he added, all but cackling. Hannah risked a glance at Neville, and it made her feel both better and worse to see that he, too, had gone red—though not as fully as she had. She thought that maybe even her toes were blushing.

"How...how are you?" Neville ventured, once they had both calmed down a little.

"I'm very well, thank you," she replied, sounding even to her own ears like she was meeting her ninety year old grandmother. "And yourself?"

"Good, good...I'm good," he said. "I...um...had a better day at work, today," he added.

"Oh, that is good," Hannah replied, leaning forwards. "I—wait, that sounds sarcastic. I don't mean it. I mean, I do mean it. I mean—"

"No, no, it's fine," Neville insisted. "I thought about what you said, about being happy. It made me feel better. So, thanks."

"You're welcome," she said at once. "Honestly, I was worried I'd sort of, you know, overstepped, but you said—and I didn't mean that—but I'm glad you're feeling better, and I wouldn't want—I mean, I know we're not—"

She was babbling, she knew, but she couldn't seem to stop; fortunately Tom, who seemed to have a sixth sense wherever Neville was concerned, leaned out of the kitchen again, cutting her off mid-sentence. "Order up for table six!"

"I've got it!" she called back. "I'll be just a second," she said, going to take the plates, and it was only when she was halfway to the table she realised that she'd basically told him to wait. Like he didn't have a million other things to be doing.

He was still there when she returned, though.

He'd taken a seat at the bar, so it felt prudent to offer him a drink. "A half of Butterbeer, please, but _only_ if you'll let me pay," he replied, and, reluctantly, she complied. "The tree looks lovely," he added, as she poured.

She beamed. She'd done it last night, wrapping empty boxes from their deliveries to put underneath to act as presents, and decorated it entirely in gold and silver. "I was inspired by the frost flowers," she said, then immediately pulled a face. "Merlin, that sounds so pretentious, doesn't it? Oooh, I was _inspired_!"

Neville laughed. "They should inspire a thousand paintings," he said solemnly. "It does look lovely, though." She nodded her thanks, then went to serve a rush of customers, who all took their time deciding what they wanted, umming and aahing over the drinks list. Hannah tried not to stomp her foot in impatience.

"What else are you thinking of doing?" he asked, when she eventually made it back to him. "You've got the holly, and the tree...what else?"

"Poinsettias," she said. "Dotted around all over the place. There's a big nursery near Cardiff that I've put an order in with; I'm going to pick them up on Saturday."

"Dedication," Neville said, raising his glass to her. "I thought that was your day off?"

Hannah's cheeks glowed. "It is," she said, "but—" And then there was another customer, and someone who needed replacement cutlery, and more drinks to carry, and all the time she was serving, she had the warmest, most pleasant feeling inside because he had memorised her schedule.

He was still waiting patiently at the bar for her when she returned and the glow intensified. "I know some people might think it's a bit sad to come into work on your day off," she said, "but—"

"But you love your job," Neville said. "That's not sad at all. It's great."

She picked up a glass to polish, mostly so he wouldn't see how much her hands were shaking. "No," she said, "well, yes, there is that. But also, I'm so excited to have somewhere to decorate again. My mother always used to go all out on Christmas—decorations would go up on the first, and the house always looked like a grotto, it was amazing. And she'd always leave some things for me and my sister to do, when we got home from school, but it was just so cosy. After she died...well, we've had trees and stuff. But I haven't wanted to go all out, because it makes Daddy so sad. And Naomi, you know, my sister, she's married now, she's got her own house but I still live with Dad, and...well, it's just really, really nice to be able to go Christmas crazy again."

"Hannah," Neville said seriously, leaning across the bar, "I'm really, really sorry about your mother."

The tears came suddenly then, and she made a strange gulping sound, trying to pull them back and say something to acknowledge his words—it had been so long now, but it still hurt so much, and he was so kind, and she could tell he meant it, but all she could manage was a very wobbly "Thanks," and he looked like he might say more, and then—

Another customer, more serving. She didn't mind so much this time, because it gave her time to pull herself together, and when he waited _again_ whilst she pulled pints and mixed spirits, it made her even more determined to _do something_. "Neville," she said, her heart beating double, triple time, "are you doing anything on Saturday?"

Neville beamed at her. "Nothing at all."

"Would you like to come with me, to the plant nursery?"

"I would love to," he replied.

"Good," she said fiercely, "I will meet you here at...ten o'clock? Good. We'll apparate over."

"I'm—" he began, but there were yet more customers and she laughed, rolling her eyes at him, and he pulled a face in return, and she didn't think she'd felt quite so happy in such a long, long time. She'd taken the leap and asked him, and she felt sure he knew that he had asked her on a date. Something in the air felt different between them, like they both knew whatever they had was going to change. It was scary, but it was _good_.

"It will be nice to actually be able to talk to you, without a million other people wanting your attention," Neville joked, when she eventually returned to him.

"Well, when you're as popular as I am..." she said, preening, and he laughed. She rearranged the glasses on the shelf below the bar, so she could pretend she was actually doing what she was paid to, and Tom wouldn't get angry at her.

"So you've got the wreath, the tree, the holly, you're going to have the poinsettias, but there's something really obvious you're missing," Neville said after a moment.

"What's that?"

"Mistletoe! Hanging above the doorway?"

"Oh, no," she said, very quickly and firmly. "No. We're not having that." Neville looked puzzled. "I have enough trouble as it is, once people've had a few drinks, with that sort of thing. They'd use it as an excuse to harass other people, and if you add Firewhiskey into the mix...well, it wouldn't end up being a very jolly time of year at all. _Also_ ," she added, "you'd get people who really do want to snog each other using it as an excuse to stand there and get all hot and heavy, and they'd be blocking the doorways. It'd be terrible."

"Well, never let it be said that I am a man who encourages doorway blockages," Neville replied, lips twitching. "It must be a terrible fire risk." Hannah giggled. "I just thought," he continued, and for a millisecond she thought he looked sort of wistful, "I just thought that it might be...helpful? Sweet? Give a little bit of courage to people who wanted to make a move but maybe...hadn't."

"I suppose everyone's just going to have to be a tiny bit braver, then," Hannah said softly. "It's that time of year, after all."

"I suppose they are."

* * *

The pub was quiet for a Saturday, particularly one so close to Christmas. Hannah supposed that people were either still shopping—it was only ten o'clock in the morning, so they probably hadn't wanted to take a break just yet—or staying at home because of the weather. It hadn't snowed, but it was absolutely freezing; a hard frost lay on the ground and there was none of the fun that came with snow, just a miserable sort of cold that chilled her bones. She stomped her feet and recast the heating charm on her cloak, wrapping it tighter around her. She wished Neville would hurry up.

As though she had summoned him by thinking about him—then very hurriedly pushing that image from her mind—he appeared on the other side of the road, bundled up warm in twelve different types of knitwear. Her heart jumped, and she didn't even try to supress the huge smile spreading across her face, waving madly at him.

He beamed back and nodded his head at her, crossing the road. She noticed he was walking very oddly—he seemed to have something huge shoved up the front of his cloak, which he was gripping closed very tightly. "Hello!" he said cheerfully.

"Hi," she replied, "how are—"

"Can we go inside?" he interrupted. "To the cold room, where you keep the food and stuff?"

"I...yes," Hannah said, confused. "But why?"

"No time," he said quickly, "where is it?"

"Follow me," she replied, setting off at a fast lick. Deep in the bowels of the pub was their cold cellar, kept at freezing temperatures through a combination of natural design and magic, for food and drink that needed to be chilled; she had no idea why Neville would want to go there, least of all with such urgency, but she didn't question it, trusting him blindly. She could hear his footsteps behind her and knew he was following her as they went down a flight of stairs and she unlocked a stone door, but neither of them spoke.

She ushered him into the cold room, lighting her wand. Normally, this was her least favourite job: going into the freezing temperature and the dark was horrible, but today she hardly noticed. She closed the door behind him, once he was inside, and he moved over to a stone slab, where there was a small space between boxes. "Turn your wand off," he said, and her she hesitated.

"It will be okay, I promise," he said, and she trusted him so implicitly that she did as he asked. They weren't plunged into total darkness: there was a small grille, right at the top of the left hand wall that let in a little light from the street, but they were mostly underground and so the light was very dimmed. Neville fiddled about with something for a moment, then stepped back from the slab, and Hannah gasped aloud.

Inside a little bell jar was one perfectly blooming frost flower. It glowed with a sort of silvery eminence, adding to the light in the room, and Hannah could see Neville's face lit up with delight as he took in her amazement. " _How_?" she cried, and he looked very smug. "You're not supposed to be able to pick these! They die as soon as they're cut— _how_?"

"I happen," he said, "to be a bit good at Herbology."

"A bit good!" Hannah echoed. "Neville, you're incredible!"

Even by the light of the frost flower, she could see his blush. "I wouldn't go that far," he said. "But...it's for you."

"For _me_?!" asked Hannah. "Are you serious? This should be on display somewhere, it's incredible. Has one even been picked before? We should get Professor Sprout—"

"She advised me," Neville interrupted. "I told her I wanted to cut one, and she said she'd done it once before. You have to wait until there's been at least a couple of days of hard frost; that's when they're at their strongest, and it has been very cold. Then, you put a freezing charm on the jar, and keep it on for at least twenty four hours before you want to use it, then you have to cut the flower with a severing charm and get it inside the jar as quickly as you can, then keep it in a cold environment to stop it withering and dying. So I literally cut it and apparated away, straight here, and that was why we had to run to the cold cellar."

"Wow," Hannah said. "That's...that's impressive." He gave another modest grin, and they both bent down to look at it again, faces inches from each other.

"Well, I remembered you said the other day about how much you hate coming down here, because it's so miserable. But if the room's always kept below freezing for the food, well, it should last for a good couple of weeks, like a normal flower would. The glow might dim a bit, but it should be fine almost until Christmas."

Hannah turned her head slightly. His lips were millimetres from hers. "You did all this...for me?"

"Well...yes?" he said, as though it were obvious. "You said you didn't like the dark and the cold. And you seemed to _really_ like the frost flowers. So..."

And then, for once, she didn't think, or second guess herself, or wonder if he felt the same, because she knew then, knew, really, what she'd known for a long time. He loved her, and she loved him. And she straightened up, and he mirrored her, and then she leaned in and kissed him, wrapping her arms around his neck, and he hesitated for half a second then put his around her waist and pulled her tight, and she kissed him and kissed him and kissed him, and it was like nothing she'd experienced before, like the most perfect moment and she loved him loved him loved him—

"We have to go," he gasped out, tearing his lips from hers, and it took her a moment to work out where she was. What planet she was on. What her name was.

"I...what?" she asked. He didn't mean— _couldn't mean_ —that he didn't want to kiss her any more. Could he?

He grinned then, and brushed away the crease between her eyebrows with his thumb. "It's okay," he said. "It's just, if we carry on here, we're going to melt the frost flower."

"That would be _awful_ ," said Hannah, and she meant it.

"I know," Neville said. "But I know somewhere else we can go. Somewhere warmer."

"I'm coming," she replied.

"Good," Neville said, and kissed her quickly for good measure. "But—wait. What about the poinsettias?"

"They'll wait," said Hannah, and he laughed out loud.


	2. Chapter 2

**Just Like Jimmy Stewart | James/Lily**

 _Semi-spoiler warning that this probably won't make much sense if you haven't seen It's A Wonderful Life. But if you haven't seen It's A Wonderful Life, go and watch it now rather than reading this. It'd be a much better use of your time._

* * *

"Oi, Evans! I've got a question for you—an important one. Are you ready?"

He sat down in the armchair opposite, and Lily looked up, startled by the seriousness of his tone and the intensity of his gaze. "Fire away," she replied, a little uncertainly.

"What," James said, leaning forwards, "is a wossle?"

"A...a what?" Lily asked.

"You know," he replied, as though it were obvious. "A wossle!"

"A _what_?" she repeated, frowning.

"A wossle! A wossle, a wossle, a _wossle_!"

"Oh, a _wossle_!" Lily cried. "Thank you, now that you've repeated yourself twelve times, I know exactly what a wossle is. It's...a wossle."

James, whose face had lit up when she first spoke, frowned. "This is no time for jokes," he replied. "I need to know. What is a wossle?"

"I'm sorry," Lily said, trying to sound polite even though she could feel herself rapidly losing patience. "I have no idea what you're talking about. Are you being serious, or is this just you being an idiot?"

"I'm being _very_ serious! I told you, it's no joke. This is very important," he said indignantly. "Look, let me write it down—can I have your quill?"

She handed it over. "No, don't write on that it's my Charms essay," she said. "Look, there you go." He scribbled something down on the parchment she'd passed him, then handed it back with a flourish. Lily squinted at his writing—it really was phenomenally bad—then comprehension dawned. "Oh!" she said. "A wassail!"

"That's what I said," James replied. "A wossle."

" _Wassail_ ," said Lily.

" _Wossle_ ," said James.

"Wassail."

"Yes—that. What is it?"

"What's a wassail?" He nodded. "Well," said Lily. "It's...er...it's...a verb? You go wassailing?"

"Yes yes, but what do you _do_? How does one wassail?" he asked impatiently.

"I'm not really sure," Lily said. "I think it has something to do with alcohol? Maybe?"

"Huh."

"Why do you ask, anyway?"

"I came across it in a book," he replied. "It said it was a muggle Christmas tradition, but I'd never heard of it. So I thought I'd ask you, to see if anyone in your family had ever... _wassailed_." He wiggled an eyebrow at her suggestively, and she stifled a giggle.

"I'm pretty sure it's not as perverted as it sounds," she said, "and of course, my totally normal and completely sane family would _never_ do anything odd...but all of our Christmas traditions, at least, are pretty standard."

"Like?"

"Oh, you know," Lily said, waving a hand. "The usual. We put the tree up—we always do it the night I get home from school, which is fun—and Mum and Petunia always make mincemeat together. Which I don't mind, because I hate mincemeat, and mince pies—"

"Disgusting, aren't they?" James agreed. "Everyone loves them, and I've no idea why, they're _awful_."

"It's all the raisins in them," Lily said, miming gagging.

"Never trust a raisin," he nodded.

"I agree!" she said firmly. "But, yes, that's about it for Christmas traditions, really. Unless you count slobbing out in front of the TV for two weeks."

"To watch films and that?" James said, clearly proud to be able to contribute such a fact to the conversation.

"Mmhmm," Lily agreed. "Gran always makes us watch the Queen's speech— _riveting_ that is—but I do like the Christmas specials. And Christmas films. Mum always likes to watch _It's A Wonderful Life_ on Christmas Eve."

"What's that?"

"It's a film," she said. "It's meant to be _the_ Christmas movie, you know? The one everyone agrees is the best film ever made. And it _is_ pretty good. It always makes me cry," she admitted.

James raised an eyebrow. "It's good because it makes you cry?" he said. "What are you, some kind of masochist now?"

"Nooo," Lily said crossly. "It's a good kind of crying. The kind that makes you feel sort of...pure and happy inside, like the tears are washing away all the bad in the world, and leaving you—"

"You do cry a _lot_ ," he pointed out.

She couldn't deny this. "I'm just a very sensitive person. But you would have to have a heart of absolute stone not to cry at _It's A Wonderful Life_ , you really would."

"What's it about, then?" he asked, and she paused. Trying to explain a story, without giving too much away and spoiling it, or rambling and losing the attention of the person you were talking to, but at the same time trying to make whatever it was sound interesting was a challenge at the best of times, but if there was ever a plot that deserved justice doing to it, it was the plot of this film. So she thought carefully for a moment.

"It's about," she said eventually, "this man who owns a bank, but it goes a bit wrong and starts to fail, and then he tries to kill himself, because he thinks it'll make it better—"

"Ah, the financial system and suicide," James said knowingly. "Truly, nothing puts me in the festive spirit quite like that combination."

"No! Shush!" she said. "It starts with this man, Jimmy Stewart, as he grows up in a small town in America, and his family own the Building and Loan, right, and then it all goes a bit pear-shaped because Uncle Billy makes this terrible mistake, or he thinks he does, anyway George—that's Jimmy Stewart—thinks he needs to kill himself to make things better financially, then his guardian angel, Clarence Oddbody, comes down and shows him what the town would be like if he wasn't there, and George agrees that it's all terrible and so he lives. The end," she finished, slightly anti-climatically.

"I think I got about one word in every three there," he said, "and, no offence, but you haven't exactly sold me on it. I mean, if suicide and banks are what muggles think are Christmassy...I don't know." He shook his head.

"You clearly have no soul!" cried Lily.

"What, because I don't think suicide is amusing, light-hearted and generally festive? I would argue that that perhaps suggests I have more soul than you," replied James.

"It's _not about suicide_!" Lily said, causing several rather alarmed-looking third years to glance over at them. "And besides, he lives. That's the point!"

"I still don't think—"

" _And_ ," she added, sounding triumphant. "There's a really, really, _really_ mean person in it. The baddie. And he's a _really bad_ baddie."

"What does he do, kill Santa?"

"No, no, worse than that, he manipulates the financial system at the bank by stealing Uncle Billy's money and causing George to want to kill himself to protect his family, and then he—the bad guy, I mean—takes over the town and it's terrible and like the worst form of capitalism _but_ ," she said pausing for breath. "The bad guy has a name."

"I'd imagine that he would," said James mildly.

"And it's _Potter_!" she said triumphantly. "The baddest bad guy in the whole world is called _Mr Potter_!"

"You're making this up!" he said.

"I am not!" she said, sounding more delighted at this than anything else. "It's _all true_."

"Fine. Fine!" said James. "Who is this terrible Potter, besmirching the name of all Potters everywhere, and how do I stop him?"

Lily rolled her eyes. "It's a film, duh."

"The 'best film ever'?" James said, making air quotes. She nodded.

"You have to watch it, then you'd agree."

"Right. So this film, that's about banking and suicide, and features the baddest baddie ever to bad, who happens to be called _Potter_...you want me to watch it, because you think I'll love it. _Really_?"

"Yes!" she exclaimed, and he couldn't help notice her flushed cheeks, the shine in her eyes as he argued with her. He was trying to be better this year, he really was—and it had only been a few months since everything that had happened in the middle of OWLs, so maybe he shouldn't push it—but it was so much fun to wind her up. And she never, ever backed down from an argument with him, which must mean that she liked it, too...

"Fine," he started to say, "maybe I'll like it, but—"

"Like what?" said Mary, appearing from the dorms and sliding herself into the armchair Lily was occupying, waving hello.

"We're talking about _It's A Wonderful Life_ ," said Lily.

He wanted to point out that they had started off their conversation about wassailing, but before he could, the bell for the end of lunch rang, and Mary and Lily turned to each other with matching expressions of what he could only describe as pure ecstasy on their faces, and said, in rather creepy unison, "Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings!"

" _Or_ , when the bell rings, we need to go to Herbology," said James, but they ignored him, shrieking with laughter and falling all over each other.

"Merry Christmas you old building and loan!" cried Mary, and Lily cheered. He hoped this wouldn't be like the time he got the two of them talking about _Blue Peter_.

Slowly, he chivvied them both into packing up their things and leaving the common room, but the entire way down to the Greenhouses, they kept quoting bits of the film to each other, or saying non-things like "Oh, and the bit with the _swimming pool_ —" "I _knooow_!" which, really, was very annoying for someone who had basically no understanding of the topic at all.

Or so he tried to pretend.

"Oh, Evans, why didn't you say there was a _swimming pool_ in the film?" he gasped. "If you'd mentioned _that_ before, I'd never have—"

"Shut up," she said, pushing him towards a snowdrift. He retaliated by charming a snowball to fly at her and she ducked, before turning around, hands on hips, to glare at him. "You know what?"

"What?" he grinned back, and he felt a flicker of triumph as he noticed she was trying _so_ hard not to let her own lips twitch.

"One day, I'm going to take you to the cinema or you can come to my Mum's or whatever, and we're going to watch the film. _Then_ you'll see that I'm right!" She nodded once in triumph.

"You mean you'll deign to see me outside of school hours?" he asked.

"Only to prove how wrong you are," she said. "You'll agree that I have the best taste in movies ever, _and_ that this particular film is the best one ever made."

"I've never seen any films," he replied. "How would I know this one was the best one ever made?"

"Well...I'll show you some others," she said. "You'll have to come round lots, I suppose," and she blushed ever so slightly. "We'll start with the Christmas classics and go from there. But I'll be right: this one will be your favourite."

"Even with a bad Potter?"

"Yes!"

"Come on, you two!" Both of them looked up, startled, and realised Mary had left them and was now at the door to the Greenhouse, with the rest of their class.

"Mary's muggleborn," James said, as they began to trudge through the snow again.

"Yes," Lily said slowly.

"So, d'you think she'd know what wassailing involves?"

"Oh, no," dismissed Lily. "You asked _me_ that," she added. "You can't go asking Mary or anyone else who's muggleborn, either. _I'm_ going to be the one who finds it out."

"You're so competitive," he laughed, and just caught the words "I love it," before they could tumble out too.

"Yeah," said Lily, "but that's why you like me." And she picked up a handful of snow, dumped it down the back of his cloak and ran off, laughing in glee, to the lesson.

And really, there was very little he could say to that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes:** This one contains much angst and talk about death and illness and whatnot, so if that's not your thing, I won't be at all offended if you skip it. The others tend to be much fluffier :) Also, the title is from 'This Time of Year' by Katie Costello, which I can highly recommend YouTubeing.

* * *

 **Best Because It's Fleeting | George/Angelina**

"How was it?"

"Better. Worse." Angelina set her bag down on the kitchen table. "Mentally, he was so much better than Wednesday," she clarified. "He knew who I was at all times, and he was the sharpest I've seen him in about a month. But physically, he was a lot worse. The cold has really taken hold now, it's on his chest, they're talking about pneumonia..."

"What are they doing?" George asked. "What can _we_ do?"

"They're trying a new medicine; they did explain it to me but right now I can't face going through it again," she said, sitting down. "My worry is it will mess with his brain, his mind. He did so well today, but that's just a one off. He's deteriorating fast. And with this new medication...what if it makes him worse?"

George sat down at the table opposite her and grasped her hands, matching her serious expression. The door to the flat opened, one of the children arriving back, and they were hit with a blast of Christmas music from down in the shop. He waited for it to be over. "If it makes him worse, they'll stop it," he said, "or find some other medications for his mind, or...or something. I'm not a Healer. But they generally know what they're doing; they'll monitor him closely. And it's good that he knew who you were."

Angelina nodded once. "He didn't ask for Roxanne, this time," she said heavily. "I don't know if that's because he remembers that she's dead, or just that he doesn't remember her at all."

"Did he ask about our Roxy? And Fred?" George asked.

"Yes, so I think—"

"Mum!" Roxanne bellowed from down the corridor. "Where are my pyjamas?"

Angelina squeezed her eyes closed for one brief second. "On the box outside the bathroom, sweetie," she called back brightly.

"Not those ones! The other ones!"

She closed her eyes again, unable to picture any pyjamas. Or, really, anything that wasn't her father, lying in that bed, looking so cold and empty.

"Do you want me to..." George murmured, and she opened her eyes again, focusing on him.

"I've found them!" Roxanne cried. "Can I have the red blanket from your room?"

"What for?"

"Dom's birthday! I'm packing for the sleepover!"

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Angelina mouthed.

"Take the blanket," George called. "I'll be up to apparate you in twenty minutes, so make sure you're ready!"

"Thanks, Dad!" A door slammed.

"How did I forget that?" Angelina said. "She's only had the same bloody birthday for...a present! I completely forgot to get her a present!"

"Taken care of," George assured her. "Roxanne went with me and we chose a scarf and hat, and she wrapped it. Done."

Angelina swallowed the tide of rising panic. "Good," she said. "Thanks. Right."

"Roxie's going to the sleepover tonight, and Fred's at Harry and Ginny's, but he'll be back for dinner," George continued. "Ron's got the floor today and tomorrow, so I'm around for whatever you need."

"I need a large gin and tonic with no tonic," Angelina said. "And then maybe a Firewhiskey chaser."

"At least wait until I've dropped Roxy off," George said. "We can squeeze something in before dinner. A something or two, in fact."

"Dinner," Angelina stated. "What's—"

"I shall cook us some takeaway," George said firmly.

"Okay. And I need to organise tomorrow's dinner—"

"May I suggest: takeaway, the sequel?"

Roxanne opened and closed the door that led down to the shop again, and there was another blast of seasonal music, replete with jingling bells.

"Christmas shopping," Angelina sighed. "I haven't even _thought_ about it."

"Wonderwitch product for everyone who likes make up," George said quickly. "Wheezes product for everyone who likes pranking."

"And for people who like both?"

"I don't know...trick lipstick?"

Her mouth did something that might have been a smile. "Seriously. I haven't done anything," she said. "I've not bought a single present."

"There's still two weeks before the big day," George said reasonably. "Two and half, really. You've got this. _We've_ got this."

"I know, but—" The door opened and closed for a third time, piping Christmas tunes into the room once again. She pressed a hand to her forehead.

"Okay, look," George said. "Everyone knows what's going on. They don't expect—they've _never_ expected!—fancy presents. You know, we can always ask all my siblings to get something from us for their kids; they know what they'd like better than us, it's—"

"It's not just the presents," Angelina sighed. She extracted her hands from his and leaned back. "I know that. It's just...I haven't got a single thing for Roxanne or Freddie yet. I haven't even thought about Christmas, except in the context of, for months, the Healers were telling me that Dad would be lucky to see Hallowe'en. And now here we are. Christmas is in two weeks. And I thought, I really thought, that we'd get one more with him, that we'd be lucky. But this chest infection..." She bit her lip. "And never mind about what presents am I going to get the kids. How am I going to tell them their Grandad is dying? No amount of gifts would make up for that."

"Love, they know he's ill," he said soothingly. "They know—"

"They don't know anything about his mental degeneration," Angelina said. "And as for his illness, they think he's got a mild but very contagious illness, so it's not a good idea for them to be visiting, though he sends his love."

"Which I'm sure he does," George said quickly. "It's not _all_ a lie."

"Oh, _God_ ," groaned Angelina. "We should've...said something before now. So they're prepared when they need to...to say goodbye."

"Two things," George said. "And you won't want to hear the first, and I'm sorry, but: they've definitely picked up on _something_ being wrong. I know they're our spawn, but they're not idiots." This raised the ghost of a smile on her face, and George took this as a good sign and ploughed on. "Fred asked me the other day if you were okay, because you seem so stressed all the time. I told him you were worried about Grandad being poorly, and that this was a busy time of year at work, so that wasn't helping. And he accepted that, but they're not exactly going to be shocked when you tell them that there's something bad going on. They know that."

"But what am I going to say? I shouldn't have kept his memory loss a secret for so long, it wasn't right to hide it from them when—"

"You did what you could to keep them happy," George said very firmly. "Like you had any other choice. As for what you're going to say, we'll need to be honest, but that doesn't mean we need to go into, you know, graphic detail. Like, they know that their Dad had a twin but he died in the war. But they don't know the details about...about the wall and...they don't need to."

He swallowed, and Angelina leaned over, squeezed his hand once, hard, then stood up and walked over to the window. He caught his breath, trying to pull himself back from there. Angelina needed him. She'd given him so much, over the years. He could give it back now.

He went over to the window and wrapped his arms around her, closing his eyes tightly as she leaned into him. The noise from the shop had died away, and their kitchen felt warm and cosy; it was peaceful and quiet and they could almost forget that—

His eyes jerked open again as Angelina gasped in shock.

"What is it?" he asked, panicked, half-expecting to see one of those horrible notes from the hospital that were appearing more and more frequently in their home, requesting her presence immediately in re: patient JOHNSON, T. M. V. But when he looked down at her, she was smiling, more relaxed and happy than she'd seemed in months.

"Look," she said, pointing out of the window, "it's snowing!"

Sure enough, white flakes were starting to fall softly from the sky; as they watched, shoppers in Diagon Alley started to notice it too, and they looked up, pointing and laughing, calling to their friends and family to come and see. It wasn't sticking, it was too fine of a powder for that, and by morning, every trace would be gone. But it was the first snow of the year, and it had a certain magic to it that went beyond spells and potions and the rest. Strangers were talking to each other in the street; children playing, sticking their tongues out to taste it. And though it wouldn't last, for this moment, it didn't have to.

Above it all, George and Angelina watched it fall from the window of the flat above the shop. She nestled into him, and he wrapped his arms more tightly around her.

It wasn't a Christmas miracle. When it stopped, when they drew apart, her father would still be slowly dying and forgetting all his family. There would still be jobs to do. They would still have to tell their children that Grandpa Johnson wasn't going to get better, and he wasn't going to know who they were. And through all of that, they would still have to put up a tree, buy presents, sing all the songs like everything was normal. The snow didn't change that.

But it did give them a moment's peace, George reflected. A short time where they could, if not forget, rest. Perhaps it wasn't a Christmas miracle, but it was enough of one. A Christmas quarter-miracle, containing just enough magic to get them through to the next one.

And so it would do.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes:** this title comes from 'Christmas Day', the She & Him version of which is one of my favourite Christmas songs _ever_. Also, thanks for all the reviews so far!

* * *

 **Just To Make Happy Someone Like You | Ron/Hermione**

Ron Weasley liked being an Auror very, very much. There were several perks to the job: the fact that he got to work with Harry, its active and fast-paced nature, the fact that he felt he was doing something that contributed to society in a positive way. The generous salary was another bonus, he couldn't deny that. But the number one reason Ron Weasley liked being an Auror was that there was no homework.

The documentation for the cases they worked on was far too sensitive to be taken outside of approved locations within the Ministry, and so although there were far too many long and boring hours writing up endless reports, this didn't have to be done in his free time. He didn't mind working hard, but he did hate the idea of his leisure time being filled with work, too.

There were trade-offs, of course: nightshifts; endless hours of surveillance where he had to remain totally still and quiet for hours on end; a big case coming in and resulting in all leave being cancelled, and extended hours in the office with barely any time to eat or sleep. But, watching Hermione make her way through caseload after caseload, doing another six, seven or even eight hours of work at home after a full day in the chambers made him very, very grateful for the lack of something similar.

That night, he wasn't watching Hermione work. This was because she was entirely hidden behind huge piles of books, and only the fact that he could see her feet (resting on Crookshanks) under the desk and hear the occasional sigh of exasperation let him know she was still there. It was, he reflected, a particular shame, because the books blocked her view of the Christmas tree he'd purchased on the way home from work, which was currently standing in the corner of the room with two boxes next to it, waiting to be decorated.

It may still have been early December—too early, really, to put up the tree—but he was determined it was going to be done tonight. Not really out of any extreme fit of festive spirit, but because it would stop Hermione from killing herself with work for...oh, maybe half an hour.

But—apart from the times she had spent sleeping, or maybe showering—that would be the longest time she had stopped working in the past three weeks. It was time she had a break. He cleared his throat.

"Hermione, love?"

"Hmm?" She looked up, lifting several books up to actually meet his gaze.

"Want to decorate the tree?"

"The tree?" she frowned in confusion. "Oh, right. You said you'd got one on the way home... Can't we do it at the weekend? I'm a bit busy right now."

"I fancied doing it tonight," he said cheerily. "We could put on the Christmas music, have a mince pie and some mulled wine, get into the spirit..." She frowned again. "Okay, not the mulled wine. It's disgusting. But you get the idea."

"I can't, I'm afraid," she said, already setting the books down on the table. "I'm just too busy. But you go ahead—I'm sure it'll look great once you're done!"

His heart sank. "I can't do it alone, that's not getting into the festive spirit!" he said, keeping his tone bright and jolly. "We've got to do it together, that's what we did last year, and the year before. Keep the tradition going, eh? So, come on. Put your stuff down and let's make the place look all Christmassy!"

"Ron," Hermione said firmly. "I _can't_. You know that. I said I would take two weeks off over Christmas, and I will. I'm not going to do a single thing for work after the twentieth, until we go back to work on the third. Two whole weeks off! We can do whatever you'd like then. But in order to do that, I said I'd have to work harder before, to get everything done before we have a break."

"You said you'd have to work harder, yes, but you didn't say you'd be killing yourself with work!" Ron exclaimed. "When was the last time you stopped working, except to go to bed? And you didn't do that until one last night—and you were up again at six!"

"Well, unfortunately, that can't change, at least before the holiday," Hermione snapped. "Ideally, I'd love to be lounging around doing nothing all evening, with no greater concern than whether to use silver or gold tinsel on the tree. But this case comes before the Wizengamot on the fifteenth, and like it or not there are a set number of hours before that deadline. It'll serve everyone much better if I actually use them productively, rather than by messing around with babuls."

Ron opened his mouth to argue with her, then snapped it shut, flopping down on the sofa on the other side of the room (which, given the size of their flat, was not quite as far away as he'd have liked). "You know what? That's fine," he replied. "By all means continue. I'll see you on the twentieth."

"For Merlin's sake, Ron," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "Yes, I'd love to be decorating the tree and doing all that fun Christmas stuff, but _I have to work_. You know I've got an important deadline, and—ugh, I'm not going to waste time arguing with you. I've got more important things to do."

She settled back down at the desk, and pretty soon all he could hear was the scratching of her quill and occasional rustle of parchment. Her feet were still resting on Crookshanks, who was purring contentedly and glaring at Ron (he was sure it was personal). But the cat gave him an idea...

Sometimes, he resented having grown up with so many siblings—he was only human, after all. But sometimes, he was very grateful for all it had taught him. Such as: how to be really, really, _really_ annoying. Watched only by Crookshanks, he used silent magic to open the box of decorations, and attach several baubles to the end of Hermione's desk. They each dangled at different heights, and Crookshanks's eyes glowed as he watched them. Ron waved his wand, and they started to jiggle up and down. Crookshanks, unable to resist the temptation, started biffing them with his paws, which made them move about even more.

Ron tried hard to stifle his giggles; Hermione hadn't yet noticed what he was up to, but it was only a matter of time before—

It all happened very quickly: Crookshanks hit a bauble with such force that it detached itself and shot across the room; he dived after it and in doing so, crashed into the tree Ron had bought in, which toppled over. Alarmed, Crookshanks leapt out of the way with a yowl, attaching himself to Ron's front with his claws before Ron had even managed to stop laughing at the tree crashed onto Hermione, whose startled shriek mingled with the cat's yowl and Ron's bellow of pain as the cat sunk his claws into his chest.

Then, there was a moment of perfect silence, the kind that comes before an explosion. Hermione emerged from the foliage, spitting pine needles everywhere. Her eyes narrowed as she took in Ron's guilty expression, the cat, and then the baubles attached to the desk that he had been playing with. Her gaze went to the one that had shot across the room, then the tree that was now covering the parts of her notes that the spilled ink from the bottle it had knocked over hadn't already obscured. Ron could see her putting two and two together—not that you needed to be the brightest witch of the age to do so—turning redder and redder in the face. She opened her mouth.

And burst out laughing.

He was so shocked he actually looked around for a moment, searching for someone else who might be lurking behind him, pulling faces to amuse her or something else equally ridiculous, but he soon realised that she was laughing at...him? Crookshanks? Herself?! "Er...Hermione?" he asked, beginning to grin despite himself as her laughter neared hysterics. "Are you okay?"

It was several moments before she could compose herself enough to spit out, "The...tree...fell...on me!"

"It did," Ron agreed slowly. "Are you...are you mad?"

Hermione positively howled with laughter. "No! This is...the best laugh I've had in weeks!"

Ron himself didn't think it was that funny, but if it stopped her from killing him, he wasn't going to complain. "Good to know I've still got the old 'comic relief' thing going on, then," he said. After a while, she calmed down until she was just giving the occasionally giggle. "D'you need help clearing your notes up?" he asked. They were covered in pine needles and strewn across the desk, but mercifully the bottle of ink she'd been using hadn't gone everywhere. Yet. It would probably be wise to get that out of Crookshanks's way pretty sharpish.

"No, no, it's fine," Hermione said, sitting down at her desk and using her wand to upright the tree and sort out her piles of parchment and books in about three seconds. "It cleared up pretty easily."

"No major damage done," Ron said, still eyeing her warily. She was flicking through the pages of one of the books, a slight frown on her face, and he wondered if maybe he'd spoken too soon.

"Oh, sod it!" she said suddenly, slamming the book shut. Ron blinked. "I think it's a sign," she elaborated. "A tree literally fell on me. The Christmas Gods are probably trying to tell me something. Let's take a break and do something festive!"

"Oh, so you'll listen to divine intervention before you listen to me, is that how it is?" Ron said. "Well, at least I know what to do next time you won't listen to me!"

"Decapitate me with some other kind of greenery?"

"I was thinking more call on any kind of deity that'll listen, but I suppose there is that, too," he replied. "Seriously though," he added, sobering for a moment, "are you sure you want to do this tonight? If you're busy, it will wait. Your work is very important."

"It is. But you were right about taking a break," Hermione admitted. "And it's Christmas. Well, kind of. But who _doesn't_ want to stop and decorate a tree?"

"Well we _do_ have to do it before Harry and Ginny come round on the weekend, or she'll do it for us," Ron said. "And we'll end up with a stunned gnome in a tutu and a tinsel explosion."

"And I do much prefer a bauble explosion," agreed Hermione, opening the other box of decorations. "Oh, _Merlin_ ," she groaned, momentarily distracted by what she discovered. "I'd completely forgotten your Auntie Muriel insisted on giving us the Nightmare Fairy." She held it up, and he shuddered.

"The eyes," he said in a spooky voice, "they _follow_ you..."

"We'll leave that her in the box," Hermione said, "oh but look—d'you remember going to the Christmas shop at Harrods last year to get these?" she added, holding up a red and a gold bauble.

"How could I forget the Gryffindor decorations?!" Ron grinned. "Go on, stick 'em on the tree. Let's get going." He loved this: loved watching her relax and forget about work, the books banished from sight for once. He loved that they were now old enough to have Christmas traditions, loved watching her cosy up their little flat by drawing the curtains and putting on records, teasing him with a Celestina Warbeck collection. He loved the ridiculous slippers she was wearing, loved the way she knew _exactly_ how to make his hot chocolate, loved the way her serious, hefty books stood next to his _Martin Miggs_ comics on the bookshelf she threw tinsel over.

It didn't take them long to decorate the tree; it was small, and their flat was tiny enough that there wasn't really much else they could decorate and still have room to sit down. But it seemed to take a long time, and not in the way that Friday afternoon Potions class had seemed to go on forever. He felt like there was a part of him that would always be in this room with Hermione, decorating a slightly rubbish Christmas tree and making her laugh, because they were twenty and in their own home and together and alive. It felt like this was payback for the years of stress and fear and worry, but a _good_ kind of payback. They both, he realised, deserved it.

And then it was done, and they flopped down together on the sofa to admire their handiwork. "There has never been a better decorated Christmas tree in the whole history of the world!" he declared, and Hermione nodded her agreement, because it was true. It was the best, because it was _theirs_.

They sat together, wrapped into each other and talked about nothing and everything; they turned off all the lights save those on the tree and the room glowed and it was perfect. Even Crookshanks was peaceful now, sleeping next to them on the floor. And then it was late, and they had work in the morning, so they yawned and stretched and got up again, conscientiously switching the lights off on the tree before heading to bed. It was just a normal day, after all. Nothing special, but still extraordinary.

Hermione gave Ron the bathroom first, putting on her pyjamas in their bedroom then heading back into the main room to pack the books she'd need for tomorrow. Ron stuck his head of out the bathroom. "I hope you're not doing any more work," he said, waving his toothbrush threateningly at her. She laughed, denying it, saying she was only packing up. "Good," he said sternly. "And keep it that way—or I'll throw another tree at you!"

In the morning, Hermione thought, she would probably regret her lack of work.

Then she looked at the tree, and then across the way at Ron, now retreating into the bedroom with Crookshanks winding his way around his ankles, always left exposed no matter what pyjamas he was wearing. "Come on, then," he said, clambering into bed and catching her staring.

And she realised she wouldn't regret it at all, not one single bit.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes:** This title is from Smith & Burrows's 'When The Thames Froze'. Thanks again for all the lovely reviews :)

* * *

 **Tell Everyone That There's Hope In Your Heart | Bill/Fleur**

"Heads up, breakfast!"

Fleur groaned loudly, covering her head with a pillow. Her husband responded by pulling the duvet off the bed, and she shrieked in horror. "Wakey wakey," Bill said cheerfully, opening the curtains as she rearranged the duvet back around her, fluffing up the pillows with a scowl on her face.

"It's the weekend! I deserve a lie-in," she grumped.

"You definitely need your beauty sleep," agreed Bill, and she pulled a face, taking the tray he'd been levitating and pouring herself a large mug of coffee. "You have a letter from your mother," he added, as she buttered toast for him.

He climbed back into the bed, taking the _Prophet_ as she opened her letter. They ate breakfast in silence, each immersed in their own thoughts, but she hooked her ankle over his, and he occasionally reached over to brush her hair out of the way of her mouth. After a few moments, she folded the parchment in half and placed it back on the tray, sipping her coffee thoughtfully.

"Any exciting news?" Bill asked.

"Much gossip," Fleur said, "and Gabrielle finishes at Beauxbatons for Christmas next week."

"Early, this year," he said.

"It ees," Fleur sighed. "Maman wondered if she might come to visit for a little while, as we shall not be there until the New Year."

"She could come and stay," Bill said, "we've got the room, and we could book some extra holiday from work and go—"

"No," Fleur said firmly, "no. It would be nice, but...maybe next year. It ees too...much, still." Bill nodded slowly. She was right. It was all too much. Still.

"What ees in the paper?"

"Not a huge amount," he said. "Mostly about the Yaxley trial. Ron said that they'd hoped to have that over before Christmas, but it's looking like it won't even start until January now. The _Prophet_ is banging on about fresh evidence, new witnesses or some nonsense. But I reckon that's just a front; the Yaxleys are one of the richest families in the country. If anyone can buy their way out of it, they can."

"Yaxley," Fleur frowned. "Zhat name ees familiar..."

"He's accused of the murder of that muggle family in Tinworth," Bill said darkly. "Back in January, when—"

"We saw the Dark Mark from up here," Fleur finished. "Yes, I remember." There was a pause, and he knew she was thinking, too, of that awful night. Almost a year ago, now. It was amazing how, despite the horrors, the world kept turning.

"I think zhat per'aps it was the best decision, Gabrielle staying in France," Fleur said, after a moment.

"I'm sure it would be fine, now, but better safe than sorry," he agreed. "And besides, we'll be there for the New Year."

"And for two weeks at Easter," Fleur said. "And I am so looking forward to showing you France in the springtime, it ees the most beautiful time, and we shall visit Paris, and _la ferme de mon oncle_ —"

"It will be lovely, I'm sure," Bill said, cutting her off as she started gibbering away in French, "but I'm sorry we won't she your family before Christmas."

"Well," Fleur said lightly, "it ees nice to be in England." Bill raised an eyebrow. "For example, where in France I could get such an overcooked turkey as will be at your muzzer's, I do not know."

He fought hard not to smile, remembering the guilt he felt. This would be the third year of keeping her with him, of the two of them staying in Britain instead of visiting her family, but every year, it felt like they had less and less of a choice.

First there had been the year he had spent most of his free time trailing Remus Lupin as he followed the werewolves, like a bizarre kind of foreshadowing of what was to come. They'd spent a truly grim Christmas Day at The Burrow, and he'd thought that couldn't be topped for its anti-festivities, but then last year Ron had turned up and demanded to be hidden, then vanished on Christmas morning, and all the while war was raging and travel was unsafe and he's thought _that_ would be it, that no Christmas would ever be any worse, but then this year would be the first Christmas when his baby brother wouldn't be there because he was dead; the first where friends were gone, too, and his family was torn in two, the first when it really, truly wouldn't be Christmas.

And she stood stoically by him, despite it all. He really had lucked out with her.

"What would we do, if we were in France?" he asked.

Her eyes lit up. "Well. There would be the largest Christmas tree, bigger than anything you would 'ave 'ere, of course."

"Of course."

"And we should all place our shoes by the fireplace on Christmas night, and if you are good, _le Père Noël_ shall come and leave your presents there, but of course we shall go to Midnight Mass first, where there will be many many overexcited children, and it shall snow—"

"You'll put in a special request with the weatherman, will you?"

"Of course," she replied, looking affronted. "And the food—I shall make for you this year _une bûche de Noël_ , and it shall be glorious, much better than this "Christmas pudding" monstrosity you English insist upon—"

"Is there anything we can do right?" Bill asked, amused.

Fleur considered this for a long moment. "Well," she said. "There ees a beautiful winter cloak I 'ave seen in Diagon Alley, if you were to purchase that for my Christmas present, I should consider that "doing right". But only if you managed to pick the correct size, and I want it to be in the pale lilac colour, which I know some would say ees impractical but—"

"Alright alright," Bill said, laughing. "I've taken the hint, thank you."

"It ees not an 'int, it ees an instruction," she said firmly. "And today, we said we would go to Diagon Alley shopping."

"We did?" asked Bill, who had visions of a packed London street filled with argumentative children and stressed parents and could not imagine ever having agreed to go there.

"We need to buy Christmas presents for all of your family," she answered. She stopped herself just in time from making an ill-thought-out remark about how many of them there were; this would be the first year with no Fred, the reason they were staying in England.

"Socks," he said firmly. "Socks for everybody."

Fleur harrumphed. "We still 'ave to go to Diagon Alley today, even just to buy socks for everyone."

"Oh, goody."

"But," she added, trying to sound cheerful, "if we get up now, we can be back 'ere by lunchtime, and then this afternoon, we can go to buy the biggest Christmas tree you 'ave ever—well, maybe not the biggest. I do not think it would fit through the door, although maybe with an engorgement charm—"

"Are you trying to tempt me into Christmas shopping with the promise of buying a tree afterwards? I'm not five, you know," Bill said. "And I've made the mistake of going shopping with you before now: "back by lunch!" We'll be lucky to be back before the New Year!"

She harrumphed again, sounding very French. "All I thought was zhat we should make an _effort_ to be festive, because our 'ome ees extremely lacking in the Christmas—"

"Do you," he interrupted, rolling over in bed having vanished their breakfast things with a wave of his wand, "know how much I love you for staying here for Christmas?" He picked up her hands, placing them on his face, and Fleur's fingers reached upwards, stroking the scars that criss-crossed his skin gently.

"It was a joke," she said eventually. "I did not mean to upset...I know that this Christmas will be 'ard. It was meant to be a joke."

"I know," he said quickly, "I know you were kidding. But I mean it. I know you would rather be in France. And I love you even more for staying here."

"Idiot," she said, half smiling. "I would most like to be in France for Christmas, yes, because that would mean we should see all of my family. But we shan't, and I shall be with you, and that shall be enough."

"Are you sure?" he asked, because they might be married, but he still wondered, sometimes.

"Of course," she replied, almost before his question was out. She'd never sounded so certain.

"You're right, though," he said. "We _do_ need to get a Christmas tree. Maybe not the biggest one ever, though."

"'Ow about," she suggested, "we get a normal sized one, for downstairs. And then we 'ave another small one, for our room."

Bill rolled over so his head was in her lap, but even upside down, she could read the look he was giving her. "We cannot," he said, "have a tree in our room."

"And why not?" she asked at once. "You said yourself, Christmas shall be different this year. Why not go all the way? Make it totally different. Decorate _all_ the rooms!"

"We're not having a tree in the bathroom," he said. "It's small enough as it is, and can you imagine the mess from the needles? Besides, where would it go? In the shower? You'd have pine needles up your bum every time you tried to shower, and—"

"Okay," she said, "we shall not 'ave a bathroom-tree. But we can 'ave a bedroom-tree, _non_?"

"I hate when you do that."

"Do what?" she asked innocently.

"Make me agree to something through trickery and treachery."

She ran her fingers through his hair. "I can't think what you mean."

Outside, a gull cried. "We should get up," he said.

"Mmm."

"Go to Diagon Alley, get socks for everyone, come home, buy a forest..."

"It sounds good," Fleur murmured. She moved further down the bed herself, his head now on her chest rather than her lap and she leaned down and kissed his forehead. "A lovely Christmassy day."

"Mmm," he said, twisting upwards to kiss her lips. "Just what we need, really."

She smiled, kissing him back again, then again.

"Orrr," he said slowly, "we could stay in bed a while longer." He pulled her fully into his arms, then down on top of her, and the exchanged matching smirks.

"It could very well work," she agreed.

Wherever they spent this Christmas—England, France, on the moon—it wouldn't feel right. It was the first Christmas without Fred, the first without so many others, and although things were getting better, they were nowhere near healed, yet. But wherever they were, it would be okay, as long as they were together.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes:** the title is _obviously_ from the Slade song ;)

* * *

 **Only Just Begun | Ted/Andromeda**

"...got to be that she's pregnant, there's no other reason for them to get married when they did..."

"...but look at her stomach, there's no extra weight there. And she's dead scrawny, you know it'd show straight away."

"They only got married in the summer, though, she might not be showing yet—"

"No, she would be. But it's funny, you know, _I_ heard it was a quick thing in some Registrar Office in _London_ , of all places!"

"Oh, she's definitely not one of us. You're right about that."

"She's not like Ted, neither. And there's got to be some reason he married her straight out of that funny school he went to. I knew boarding school was a bad idea. I told Mary that when he won that scholarship when he were eleven. You mark my words, I told her, there'll be trouble! He'll come back here with ideas above his station, you know."

"And she ent half above his station—you can bet she got herself knocked up and her rich daddy wanted nothing to do with it—"

"Oh, Judy, shush!"

Logically, Andromeda knew, being talked about should hurt. She should care about what Ted's family were saying about her; should be blinking back tears or maybe lashing out. That was what they expected of her: hysterics, snobbery, rudeness. An inability to cope, or to Be Like Them.

And it wasn't wanting to prove them wrong that stopped her from doing any of that. It was that nothing they could say would ever be as bad as what her own family had done.

When your parents refused to acknowledge your existence anymore, when your siblings acted like there had only ever been two of them, like your entire life up to that point could be erased, like you were nothing, nothing, _nothing_ to any of them, it gave you a sense of perspective, she felt. There was little else that could hurt her. That had been rock bottom. Nothing else really touched the sides.

"...'course, it could be Ted that's to blame. You know, liking his bit of posh. I always said, you know, that school, it's _strange_. They never told us what he studied, and—"

She still made a big show of rattling the kitchen door before she entered; the voices, particularly the loudmouth Judy, fell silent as she had suspected they would, before suddenly, loudly, talking about the weather.

"Horrible cold that we're having," said one of the older ladies. "It's a bugger with my rheumatism, it really is."

"Oooh, I know," agreed another. "This morning I had to break the ice in my washstand. Frozen over, it had."

Andromeda took a deep breath. She was going to have to speak to them, and pretend she hadn't heard their speculation about her marriage. She was intimidated, a little bit, but she tried to hold on to that feeling that nothing they could possibly say would be worse than what she'd already heard from her own mother. "Excuse me, but I was told there was another tray of mince pies in here somewhere? We're running rather low out there."

"In the cupboard on your right," said one of the women, and she made her way over to it. They all watched her like she was a specimen at the zoo.

She'd been introduced to them all, myriad relations and friends of the family, as they'd arrived at Ted's parents' house, where she lived now. His parents threw a Christmas party every year, although this was the first one she'd attended because the previous year, she and Ted hadn't yet been together very long, and she didn't then know how to talk around muggles without giving the game away. It was only a year ago, but it could have been a lifetime.

"This is Andromeda," his mother had said, and she'd watched all their eyebrows creep up, because they all had normal names of just one syllable. "Our Ted's new bride," she'd added, and the eyebrows had gone up even further. Nobody had exactly been hostile, as such, but it was clear that she was Not One Of Them.

It was the same sort of reaction she'd got from Ted's parents, when they'd first married. They were polite—at least to her face—but they couldn't hide the fact that she Didn't Fit In. It wasn't her magic, although that didn't help. It was everything else: her accent, her upbringing, her lifestyle, her _class_. They lived in this tightknit mining community in the north, and she'd grown up in a townhouse in Mayfair. They lived the same lives they'd lived for generations. And they had no more of an idea what to do with Andromeda than they would have with a tiger Ted had brought home to live with them.

She rather thought, too, that they would have preferred a tiger. It could, eventually, be skinned and used for something.

She was useless: she couldn't work in the muggle world, because she didn't know enough, and her family had enough influence in the magical world to keep her out of employment there, too. She didn't have a house to keep, because they couldn't yet afford anywhere on Ted's salary, and even if they had had their own place, she didn't yet know enough to keep it clean or to cook. She was determined to learn, determined to show his mother that she _could_ be good enough for her son.

And she was getting there. Slowly.

She hadn't been allowed to help with the food preparation for the party—and Mary Tonks had been planning this celebration since the end of October and cooking for it since the end of November—but she _was_ allowed to serve, to fetch trays of mince pies. Which was progress.

* * *

"It was lovely to see you again," her mother-in-law said, beaming at the red faced old man as she ushered him out into the hallway. Three times, he'd tried to pinch her bum, and once he'd nearly pulled her onto his lap, but Andromeda had just about managed to fend him off. He was, of course, yet another relative; she'd forgotten his name, but with that walrus-like moustache, he reminded her strongly of Horace Slughorn, which in turn reminded her of school, and her sisters.

"Such a delight to meet this pretty young thing!" he chuckled, leering at Andromeda. She'd been caught off guard, remembering family Christmases, and she rather garbled a lie in response about enjoying meeting him. Only a moment later, however, her mother-in-law had bundled him out of the door with a final Merry Christmas, and a huge sigh of relief once the door was closed.

Andromeda tried to supress her look of shock. This was clearly _the_ social event of Mary Tonks's year; as far as she was aware, no one—least of all herself—was allowed to express even a second's displeasure. "Horrible old fart, he is," Mary said, more to herself than anything, and Andromeda let out a surprised giggle. "Oh, he _is_. He's one of Bert's uncles, not my side of the family of course, and more trouble than he's worth, I can tell you. At our wedding—oh, well, I won't get into it, it being Christmas, peace on Earth and goodwill to all I say, but the sooner he falls off his perch, the better for us all!"

Andromeda laughed aloud properly now, delighted at this sudden camaraderie with her mother-in-law, and more than happy to listen to her snub half the people who'd been so rude to her all afternoon. "And don't even get me started on that Judy!" Mary continued. "Oooh, she's a right one she is—not a blood relative, of course, just married in, no offence dear—but every year she comes in with her airs and her graces, picking faults. She's so rude, she really is, honestly it's no wonder her husband has his eye on the girl who works down the bakery!"

"She thinks I'm pregnant, and that's the only reason Ted married me," Andromeda confided. Mary snorted.

"Just ask her to pour you another sherry, then—if she's left any of the bottle for anyone else," she said. "And she can't take a hint, can she? We're starting the washing up, and she's still got her bottom parked on my Bert's armchair, gabbing away."

"I can get that done for you in a second," Andromeda said, pleased to finally be able to offer something. She'd been practising and practising household charms behind her mother-in-law's back; she was now good enough to clear away everything used for a big roast on Sunday, leaving every pot and pan and surface sparkling in under thirty seconds. "Once everyone's gone, obviously."

"Oh, no, love, that's fine," replied Mary, patting her arm. "Honestly. This is my party, not yours. I'll do it."

"But it wouldn't take a moment, and then—"

"No," her mother-in-law said firmly. "I'll do it. _You_ need to go out with my son, get yourselves down the pub and have a nice drink. He's been itching to get you alone all afternoon."

"There are so many people, I haven't seen him for hours," Andromeda said. "I don't know where he is now."

"He's out back having a kick around with Trev and Colin—you know, Edie's lads?" Andromeda nodded at this, like she knew who any of those people were. She'd been introduced to so many relatives over the day that she no longer cared about keeping their names straight. "Now, Edie's a lovely girl," Mary continued, "but those boys! Oh! The trouble we've had with 'em. Oooh, it's been awful it has. Still. Family is family, eh?"

Andromeda wondered just what she was supposed to say to this. "Of course," Mary continued, laughing and oblivious, "you're part of this madness now! And you've married into a right old bunch, I can tell you!"

Sometimes, she thought it really might be that simple.

She'd changed her name, and exchanged one family for another. Not a Black anymore, a Tonks instead. But was she supposed to erase nearly two decades of her previous life, ignore the blood that flowed in her veins, immerse herself in this world of muggles, memorising the names and lives of the hundreds of people she'd been introduced today, in an attempt to forget the names and lives of her two sisters? There should be a balance, somehow.

At least she'd never have to balance out Christmas Days—one year with the Tonkses, one with the Blacks, she thought, and nearly laughed aloud at the absurdity of it.

Her mother-in-law was now pressing her coat (coats now, not cloaks) into her arms. "Ted's in the yard; you go out and join him." So she did.

"Hello," she said, waving at her husband and the two lads he was with, whose names—like so many others—had fallen out of her brain. And Ted looked up and smiled at her, and for the moment, it felt like everything else had fallen out of her brain, too.

"Hello," he said, zooming over and pecking her on the cheek. "Ow!" One of the boys—they looked to be about fifteen or so, and she thought for one brief moment of Sirius—had thrown the football at Ted, and it had bounced off the back of his head.

"Your mother said we're free to fly far away from here if we choose," she said. "Would you care to join me?"

"Get your broomstick, witch, and we'll be on our way," he grinned. "How's a pint down the Dog and Lamppost sound?"

"If you're buying, lovely," she replied.

"Can you buy me a pint, too, Ted?" asked one of the boys cheekily.

"When you're old enough," Ted replied. "For now, I'm going off for a drink with my good lady wife."

"Under the thumb already," tsked the other.

"Bye, Colin!" Ted laughed, and he gallantly opened the side gate for Andromeda. "What d'you want to do?" he asked in a much lower voice, as they began walking down the street. "Grab a broom and fly to London, go to the Leaky? Or we could apparate up to Hogsmeade if you fancied."

"Let's stay local," Andromeda said, after considering for a moment. "Besides, I've only got muggle money in this coat."

"Got your wand though?"

"Always," she said, and slipped her hand inside his. She loved the feel of the ring on his third finger, and still couldn't get over the fact that it was a promise to her. She loved the strange muggle money, too, and the anonymity that came with living among muggles. Anonymity, but not: no one knew she was a witch, but she knew most of the neighbours now, and they both waved and called hello to the people they passed on their way to the pub.

There were the Coopers, manoeuvring a Christmas tree into their home; Wendy Parkin, kissing her boyfriend on the street corner underneath some mistletoe she was holding up; Mr Riaz taking in the unsold newspapers from the stand outside his shop. Andromeda knew them all, and they all knew her. They'd never replace her family, but they were something else, something new: friends. Friends she wouldn't have without Ted, who'd bought her so much already.

"So," he said, after they'd said farewell to Mr Riaz and carried on down the street towards the pub, "do you want to hear some good news?"

"Of course," she said, smiling up at him.

"You know my cousin Pete?"

"To be frank, every single one of your relatives has blurred into one at this point, so unless he has a third arm or some other similar identifying feature, no," she said honestly.

Ted laughed. "Well, it doesn't really matter. His role in this story is minimal: his sister's boyfriend's mother owns a bedsit in Doncaster, and her current tenant moves out at the end of January. Pete told me how what the rent she charges is, and we can afford it. So tomorrow, we're going to go and look at it. If you like it, we can be out of my parents' and into our own home before February. What d'you say?"

"Are you serious?" she asked. She'd been slowing down as he spoke, as though if she walked too fast she'd run away with his words and they wouldn't come true, and now she came to a halt, turning around to look him in the face directly. He looked happy, happier than he had in a long time, and she felt a bubble of hope rise inside her.

"Absolutely serious," he said. "We're going to have our own place!"

Unable to find any words that could possibly express her own excitement, she settled for shrieking with delight and throwing her arms around her husband, and he laughed out loud, picking her up and whirling her round and round and round, and she kissed him then, slowly and deeply and truly in the middle of the street.

The door to the nearby pub banged open, spilling several men out onto the street who whistled at them good naturedly. From inside the pub, she could hear glasses clinking and people laughing, and the band belting out the refrain to Ted's favourite song. Outside, it was growing darker, and, as she tilted her head up to kiss him again, she felt the first snowflakes start to settle on her face.

All that mattered was the man standing before her. So much had changed since last Christmas, but he hadn't, he had always been there for her, even back when she hadn't known he was what she needed. She didn't know what the future would bring, but one thing was certain, it was only just beginning.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes:** This makes reference to Percy/Penelope but isn't a shippy fic (or an anti-fic. It's just...there, in the background. Like all failed relationships. Oh boy!) The title is from 'Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas'.

* * *

 **If The Fates Allow | Percy/Audrey**

"Percy?"

"Penelope?"

"Oh my goodness, I can't _believe_ it's you!"

It was not, Percy reflected, that unbelievable. They both lived and worked in London, close to Diagon Alley, and it was likely that they would bump into each other at _some_ point. Really, the strange thing was that they had been broken up for almost a year and _not_ met each other until now.

"How _are_ you?"

"I'm...I'm very well," lied Percy. "How are you?"

"I'm great!" Penny chirped. "I can't believe how long it's been—what have you been up to? How's life? And your family?"

"Everything's great," he said as cheerfully as he could. He didn't know if it was a good thing or a bad thing that she, who had once known him so well and could read his every mood, was completely taken in by this, and beamed at him.

"I'm so glad," she said, and sounded it. He tried to concentrate on the dimple in her left cheek that appeared when she smiled at him—the dimple he'd spent months composing odes to, the one that made him think she might just be the most beautiful woman ever to have lived—and not thoughts of...of the news he'd received late last night.

"Do you have time to get some lunch?" Penelope asked hopefully. "I was just heading out, there's an absolutely divine café round the corner from here, I discovered it on something like my second day because the food at Gringotts is literally all Goblin food, it's disgusting, but here—"

"I've got time for lunch," Percy said, interrupting the flow of words. Of course he had time for lunch. They'd encouraged him to take as much time off as he needed, to visit his father, then come back and tell them _exactly_ what he'd been up to, sneaking around the Ministry at night with a giant snake. It was embarrassing, really.

And his father had nearly died. And he still wasn't speaking to him. And he'd nearly died.

He tried not to dwell on that, listening instead to Penelope who was chattering away happily about people they'd known at school. They walked down the street together, past crowds of Christmas shoppers and carol singers. Penelope was wearing a cloak of deepest green that matched the huge tree in the centre of Diagon Alley, and all the shop windows glistened with tinsel and treasures. He wondered how she—how _anyone_ —could be so happy after what had happened.

Bill's note had said that Dad had been mortally injured. That he should come, _now_ , because this was looking like this might be it. And Percy hadn't trusted his brother, unsure if the note was real, or if Bill or any of his other siblings wanted to trick him somehow. _"Come to St. Mungo's, Percy, so we can mock you even more! Even Dumbledore, who we've all decided to trust blindly like he isn't responsible for sending your two favourite Uncles to their deaths, might turn up to punish you for not believing a deranged child when he says that Lord Voldemort is back! We heard the news the other week, that you've got another promotion. Well, we're here to tell you that you don't deserve it, that you can't take it, and you're doomed to live in poverty for the rest of your life like your nonentity of a father!"_

So he'd burned the note, ignoring his brother, and turned up to work at half-past seven to find whispers and rumours following him all morning. And then Fudge himself had come to him, asked if he knew, had he heard, and the _embarrassment_ at hearing what his father had been up to, sneaking around the Ministry at night—

And then he remembered Bill's note. _Mortally injured. Come now_. He'd sent that hours ago. And no word since—

And then, like he'd wished it into being in his terror, another note, Bill's writing again. _Dad okay. Don't bother coming._

The fact that all this had happened, and Christmas could still be a concern for people, was close to unbelievable.

* * *

Penelope led him into a warm, cosy café. She'd been happy to chatter away about mutual friends and new acquaintances, and all that had been required of him was to nod and agree or offer some vague comment in response to the constant stream of words. In its own way, it was quite soothing.

"Anyway," she said, as she led him to the table. "I've gone on and on and on, I'm so sorry. How are _you_ , what are you up to now?"

"Well," he said, "I got a promotion. I'm now Junior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic himself!" Despite everything, he couldn't help the note of pride that entered his voice.

"Oh wow, Percy! That's fantastic!" Penelope beamed. His ex-girlfriend could be happy for him, a part of him noted, but not his own family. "Really, well done. You'll be Minister by February I've no doubt!"

"Of course not," he laughed, shrugging off the joke, but a part of him thought—what if he was? Not by February, but at some point. They'd have to talk to him then...

"And your family? How are they?"

He shouldn't have kept thinking about them, he thought furiously. It was like he'd been daring Penny to mention them, and now she had. "They're good," he said shortly.

She looked up from her menu, finally clocking that something, somewhere wasn't quite right. "Are you—" she began, but just then, their waitress arrived. She was a youngish woman, about the same age as the two of them, and she looked vaguely harassed as she pulled a pencil and notepad out of her apron. "What'll it be, guys?"

Penelope smiled at her and ordered something he didn't hear, and Percy distractedly asked for the same. A man with red hair pulled back in a ponytail had just walked past the window, and he'd thought for a moment it was Bill.

"So, anyway," Penelope said, once the waitress had gone. "Did I tell you the latest about Jenny Stebbins?"

"No," Percy said, injecting as much enthusiasm as he could into his voice. "But please, do tell me everything. I would simply love to hear all the gossip."

Penelope laughed, launching into the story.

As she spoke, Percy's eyes wandered again, searching down Diagon Alley for the red-haired person he'd seen. If it was Bill, he might be able to tell by how he looked, how he acted, what had happened, what further news—he'd managed, after all, to get an O in his Divination OWL just by being able to read people's bodies, not their minds, and if he could just see Bill—and he could, and _was_ him, and there was another person there with him, a blonde woman who looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place her; she had the most beautiful face he'd ever seen, but it was sad, confused, anxious, like it was hurting for Bill, and maybe, well, this must be the latest in his string of girlfriends, but then she smiled, and embraced him, and he sank into her but it was with relief, so things with Dad must be going okay—

"Your sandwiches?" The waitress, clutching their plates, was looking at him with some concern, and so, he realised belatedly, was Penny.

He blustered an apology, to which woman he wasn't sure, and the waitress left. "Are you okay?" Penelope asked.

"Of course, of course," he said dismissively.

She didn't look convinced. "I wasn't boring you, was I?"

"Of _course_ not," he said, trying to sound more genuine. "Do carry on, in fact. You were saying about Jenny?"

"Oh, yes," said Penelope, picking the crusts off her sandwiches. It had been a habit she'd had for years, and he'd found it sort of sweet and endearing, but today it irritated him. She was twenty, now, too old for poor table manners to be excused. If his mother had been here, she'd have been horrified—

He dismissed that thought.

Penelope was still chattering away about Jenny Stebbins, and he suddenly felt a rush of claustrophobia, even though the café was half-empty. How could she talk so much about all these boring people? She was going on and _on_ about this woman's love life, this woman he'd apparently been to school with, but he had no idea what she looked like, or even if they'd been in the same classes...

"So, anyway," Penelope said, giggling, "Jenny said to him 'I'd rather be with a mountain troll!', and then she just tipped her Butterbeer all over him, and it was _incredible_!" Percy forced himself to laugh along with her. "Anyway," she added, taking a sip of her tea, "I have gone on more than enough. Tell me about yourself. How are your family?"

It was, he noted, the second time she'd asked him about them, and he'd been clear that he didn't want to talk about them before. Had she always been this obtuse, or was he only noticing it now that he wasn't in love with her anymore? Had he ever, he wondered, been in love with her, truly, or had he just thought her cute and sweet, and been flattered by the attention? Her little tics and quirks, like her refusal to eat crusts, or ability to tell long and winding stories about nothing of interest, had been endearing, then, but now...

"They're well," he said, because it was broadly true. "Although, truthfully, I haven't seen much of them lately." He drew himself up importantly to explain this, should she ask, but she just nodded.

"Oh, I know," she said sympathetically, and he started. "I'd never have thought it would be so hard, especially with magic when you can just travel whenever! But I'm so _busy_ these days. I mean, I love it, I really do. Work is great, and I've just bought a flat, did I tell you? A super cute little place up in York, so it's not too far from Upper Flagley, which is nice, because on the weekends..."

The conversation rolled on again. He risked a look out of the window, but Bill and the mysterious blonde were long gone.

"Anyway, that's the nice thing about Christmas, isn't it?" said Penelope. "Getting to go home for a few days and seeing your family and everything. Only ten days, eek! I bet you're really looking forward to it."

"Absolutely," he said, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. "What are your plans?" he asked, before she could press him further.

"Well, we're going up to Mum and Dad's the day before Christmas Eve, and we'll stay there 'til the day after Boxing Day, and that'll be just lovely," Penelope said. "Then," and here, she stuttered slightly, a faint glow appearing in her cheeks, "then I'm going to Delhi for the New Year. That's in India."

"I know," he said, then realised by her startled expression that he might have been a touch too snappish. "I mean, why are you going there?" He realised, then, that the reason her voice had changed was because she couldn't seem to stop herself from smiling, constantly, and it was making her sound...happy. She sounded happy.

And suddenly, he knew what she was about to say before she said it, and he fixed his face into a suitable expression just before she spoke.

"Well, I've met this guy," she said, and the blush deepened. "He works at the bank, he's come over from India for a few years to work here and we've...we're together. So we're going out to see his family for New Year and...it should be great!"

"It should," he agreed. "India is meant to be a beautiful country; I'd like to go myself one day. I hope," he added, and despite everything, he found himself meaning it, "that you both have a wonderful time."

She smiled at him then, a true, genuine smile, the one he remembered, and he suddenly missed her, and them, and his old life so overwhelmingly terribly that he thought he might cry right there and then. "Thank you," she said. "I must introduce you to Aditya at some point, I think you'd both get on really well."

 _Because we've both left our families?_ he almost asked, but bit it back in time. Aditya had left for work (so had he, a small voice said, but he quietened it), and he was welcome back to his home at any time. He, Percy, was not. "I'd love to meet him!" he said instead, and Penelope smiled again.

"We're actually having a housewarming next week," she said. "I'll write down the address for you, look, but it's next Friday, seven til whenever. There'll be work people there, but also a few of the old crowd. It'd be great if you could make it?"

It was a nice gesture, he thought. "I'll have to consult my diary," he said, "but thank you very much for the offer. I will try to make it."

"Good," she said, "it's been lovely to catch up again. I always think our lot from school should make more of an effort to see each other, not let things fall by the wayside, you know?"

He nodded. He wouldn't go. Maybe one of his old schoolfriends would've heard about his Dad—Helena Swanwick was training to be a Healer at St Mungos; Josh Mallard worked on the same floor as his father at the Ministry; he might see them there and he could ask—nothing. He wouldn't even know where to begin. He imagined himself asking Helena if she'd heard anything about his father, if she knew if he would be okay. Or what he'd been up to.

She would never say anything, he realised. There was patient confidentiality to think of. Though that was different if it was family, wasn't it? Could Healers tell blood relatives what they knew? Did that mean, if he ended up in hospital, the Healers could tell his parents what his prognosis was? If he ended up in hospital, would his parents come?

He knew the answer to that.

"Anyway, lovely as this has been, I must get going," Penelope said now. She slid a piece of parchment across the table. "My address. I know your work is super important and everything, but it would be lovely to see you, if you can get the time off."

"I'll try," he said, and she smiled.

Penelope smiled a lot. He should maybe try that, too.

There was the usual polite argument over the bill, then she stood up. "I'll stay a while," he said, when she asked if he was coming. "Extended lunch today—may as well make the most of it!"

"Of course," she said, then waved him goodbye.

He needed a moment. Or perhaps several hours.

He needed to be sure Bill was gone.

He needed her to leave, in case he saw her with her new boyfriend on her way out. They'd been broken up for over a year, and he was genuinely happy that she'd found someone new. He'd always liked Penelope, and their break-up had been amicable when they'd both simultaneously realised their relationship probably wouldn't last five minutes outside of school. But it still sort of felt like a punch in the gut, knowing she'd met someone else, and he wasn't entirely sure why.

His father, he thought, would probably know. He'd know what to say to make him feel better, or what to do. He'd take him down to the shed, show him some muggle contraption or other, and they'd marvel over how it worked together until all thoughts of Penelope and Aditya were pushed from his mind.

Percy thought of his Dad in the hospital, and closed his eyes. He wished things were different.

* * *

He stood up suddenly, sure Penelope and Bill were long gone, pushing his chair back—and he crashed into someone. There was a small shriek, and a clatter, and that sudden, heavy silence that occurs when everyone stops to stare at what's happened. He forced his eyes open, forced himself to look at what mistakes he'd made now, and saw the waitress from before crouched on the floor, sweeping up several broken pieces of crockery into a dustpan.

"I'm so sorry," he said at once, bending down to help her. "I'm so sorry, did I hurt you?"

He found himself looking straight into her big brown eyes, and she smiled. "Don't worry," she said, "it's okay." And he very nearly cried, then, because no one had said that to him in such a long, long time.

"Are you sure?" he asked, once he'd got himself under control, but he thought that maybe she had seen something in him, because her voice was even kinder as she reassured him.

"We have breakages all the time," she said, "and no one was hurt, and, look, no one is even paying us any attention anymore." It was true: after the crash from the plates and cups falling to the floor, conversations had suddenly started up again, and people were talking together. "Besides," the woman added, with a small laugh, "it's Christmas. Well, almost. No hard feelings."

Percy picked up the handle of a broken cup, and placed it in her dustpan. "No one was hurt," he repeated softly, and the woman, the waitress, nodded.

"That's true."

"Last night," he said, because he could say to her what he hadn't managed to say to Penelope. "Last night. My Dad. He was attacked. And now he's in the hospital."

The woman met his eyes again, and this time, in those deep brown pools, he could see genuine sadness and empathy for him, and he tried not to think about how little he deserved that. "I am so sorry," she said, and her eyes filled with tears too, and he could tell that she meant them, meant her sorrow, even though his father had enough people to care without her, and he didn't know how to be sad. "That must be horrible, for you both."

He swallowed, hard, then gave a brief jerk of his head, before standing up. She followed suit, and he noticed, as she did so, that she was almost as tall as him. It was funny; he had never seen her before, he was sure, and yet she seemed strangely familiar.

"I hope," she said, "that he makes a full recovery."

"They...they think he's going to," Percy managed. She smiled then, and he felt like because this stranger was genuinely glad that his father would get better, he _would_ be fixed.

He looked down for a nametag on her front, and saw her stiffen, and realised what it looked like. He coloured, drawing his gaze back up to her face. "Thank you for your well wishes, Miss...Audrey."

She smiled, and he hadn't realised how much he missed that until she did it again. "You're welcome," she said. "And—Merry Christmas!"

Percy smiled then. "Merry Christmas," he repeated, and then he made his way over to the door.

He was halfway down Diagon Alley before he realised what was most strange about her: that he had not once seen her with a wand, even when she had been sweeping up the broken crockery. All the time, she had been sweeping, cleaning or working by hand without magic, even though she was on the most magical street in Britain.

And he was almost back at the Ministry before he realised that, although he knew her name, she did not know his. And it struck him as a great shame, because—and he was at his desk before _this_ thought occurred to him—thinking about her had stopped her worrying about his father for the first time since he'd heard about the incident.

There was something about her, that was for sure. Audrey whatever-her-name-was. Maybe, in the New Year, he'd learn what it was.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes:** Cheesier than your cheeseboard, with the title courtesy of the one and only Mariah. It's getting festive up in here...

* * *

 **Make My Wish Come True | Teddy/Victoire**

Very carefully, Victoire hid the mirror inside her (brand new) Weasley jumper and crept down the stairs. She went as quietly as she could, not wanting to drawn any attention to herself. There was, after all, only one thing worse than being pathetic, and that was being caught being pathetic by your younger sister. Again.

"Victoire?" She winced.

Or being caught being pathetic by your father.

"Calling Ted again?"

"No..." she said, blushing. He gave her a look. "Maybe. Yes. It's Christmas!" she added in her defence.

Her dad laughed. "It is," he agreed. "And it's no fun being separated from your one true love at Christmastime, is it?"

"Da-ad!"

"It isn't!" he said. "The first Christmas your Mum and I were together, she came back here for Christmas, and I stayed in England with Grandma and Grandad. It was rubbish!"

"Did you vow never again to be separated on this most festive of days?" she teased.

"Well, next Christmas she spent with us because we were engaged— _don't_ ," he added, his voice turning very serious very suddenly, "get engaged by next Christmas."

"Honestly, Dad!" Victoire said shaking her head. "Do you think I'm an idiot? Ted and I are definitely going to wait until the Christmas after that, when I'm done with school!"

"Don't be so cheeky to your old father," Dad said severely. "If you're good, I might be persuaded to keep your siblings and cousins away from your grandparents' study whilst you call your boyfriend in private for five minutes."

"You're the best Dad in the world!" she said immediately. "And not, like, _that_ old."

"Hmpf."

"Fifteen minutes?"

"Ten," he said, and held up a hand to silence her. "We're all supposed to be gathering in the dining room for the first course by twelve, and it's almost quarter to now," he said. "You have to be there—I'll need you beside me to translate. Nearly twenty years I've been married to your mother and I still can't speak a word of French..."

"That's a lie," said Victoire. "You know all the rude words, because you always tell me off for saying them!"

"What—as we used to say even back in my day—ever!"

Laughing, Victoire shut herself in her grandparents' study. It was a warm, cosy room filled with all sorts of magical trinkets, and once upon a time, she'd loved nothing more than hiding out in here with her Grandfather as he told her all about the items he'd collected over his life, or with her Grandmother, as she showed her photographs of beautiful dresses she'd worn over the years. She still liked the room, and, of course, still loved her mother's parents and their home in France with all her heart.

But this year, she'd give _anything_ to be back in England, spending Christmas at The Burrow. They alternated Christmases at each set of grandparents', and this year, the Delacour-Weasleys were in France, visiting her mother's family. And, truly, it was lovely to see the friends and relations they only ever saw during the holidays.

But she would have exchanged them all for Ted.

Dominique said she was pathetic, but that was because Dominique had never been in love. Or, worse, been separated from her boyfriend for an _entire term_ at school, only to be whisked off to France the night after the train had got in to Platform Nine and Three Quarters, having spent barely five minutes with him in the intervening period.

Okay, so maybe it wasn't the biggest Christmas tragedy ever. But it still felt pretty rubbish to her.

Carefully, she withdrew from the folds of the jumper the mirror that had become her best friend. Once, it had belonged to Uncle Harry's father and Godfather. It had been passed on to him, then on to Ted—and so had its partner. With the right incantations, it could be used to communicate with whoever held the other.

She tapped it with her wand and settled back. Dominique might have laughed at her for the amount of time she had spent talking to Ted on it since they'd arrived in France, but she didn't care. She could see his face and hear his voice, and that was the next best thing to having him beside her. Her own reflection dissolved, and she felt that familiar flutter in her stomach in anticipation of seeing him again.

Any minute now, the mirror would show her...a close up of someone's nostrils.

"Um..."

The mirror moved backwards, and her little cousin Lily's face was revealed. "Hello Victoire!" she bellowed. "Guess what? Santa has been!"

"Wow!" exclaimed Victoire, trying not to let her disappointment show. Her cousin was very sweet and normally, she loved having her around. But she had a very limited amount of time to talk to Ted before she had to go and join her family for Christmas lunch, and knowing how seriously the French took their food, this was an event that would take _hours._ If she couldn't speak to him now, it would be this evening before they saw each other... "You've been good then?"

"Of course," Lily said seriously. "Has Santa been all the way to France?"

"He has!" Victoire said. "Him and his reindeer must have been _very_ busy last night."

"Oh good," replied Lily, looking relieved. "Teddy said that Santa didn't come to France because it was a silly country filled with silly people! And I thought you might not get any presents, and so I was very sad for you."

"No, Santa came, so we must all have been good—even Louis! But d'you who Santa _doesn't_ come for?" Victoire asked, and Lily shook her head. "Naughty boys who tell terrible lies about French people!"

Lily's eyes went wide. "Does that mean Teddy?" she asked.

"It does," Victoire confirmed.

Lily hesitated for a moment, then burst out into gleeful laughter. "I'm going to tell him that!"

Victoire bit her lip, and made peace with saying goodbye to the last of her dignity. "Is he there now? Can I speak to him?"

Lily appeared not to have heard. "Guess what?!" she cried.

"What now?" Victoire said, trying to sound patient. The door to the study had popped open, and she saw her mother, arm-in-arm with Tante Gabrielle, making her way to the dining room. She waved at Victoire, then pointed to her watch. _I know_ she mouthed back. She was running out of time...

"You know how we bought Mummy's scarf?" she asked.

"Yes..." Victoire said. Her cousin had been saving her pocket money since the summer to buy her mother a new scarf for Christmas, and Victoire had been roped into going with her ("Because," Lily had said, "Daddy is really really bad at clothes," and Victoire, who had seen Uncle Harry's enormous collection of nineties knitwear, was forced to agree). She had been dragged by her cousin around thirty-two shops—muggle and magical—in search of the perfect scarf, but in the end Lily had been satisfied with the first one they had seen, a beautiful red number made of the softest wool. Watching her laboriously count out the Galleons she'd saved to pay for it would have been enough to melt the hardest of hearts, and Victoire had to agree that if anyone deserved such care and attention paid to them, it was Auntie Ginny.

But right now, she was finding it very, very hard to pretend to be interested as Lily rambled on, telling the story of how she'd found it, as though Victoire hadn't been there already.

"Anyway!" Lily said, finally coming to the end of her long speech. "I gave it to Mummy this morning and she really really really really _really_ liked it!"

"That's great, Lils," Victoire said, peering at her watch in some desperation.

"And I told her about how you came with me to get it and she said thank you very much," Lily said solemnly.

"Aww, tell her she's welcome!" replied Victoire. "Now, Lily, can you do something really important, and go and fetch Ted for a sec? I really want to talk to him, but I'm running out of time."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you running out of time?" Lily asked.

"Because I have to go and eat Christmas dinner with all my family in two minutes, and I wanted to talk to him before then," she said.

"Oh," Lily said. "Your French family?"

"Yes," Victoire said, a touch desperately. "We do every other Christmas with them, you remember. Is he there?"

"Who?"

"Teddy!"

"Oh!" Lily said. "He gave me the mirror. Just to look after."

"That's nice," Victoire said through gritted teeth. Though young, her cousin was not normally this obtuse. "Can you find him for me?"

"I don't know," Lily replied.

Victoire bit back a scream of frustration in the knowledge that today of all days was not a good time to become the Evil Cow Cousin for Making Poor Lily Cry.

"Look, Lils," she said, "I have to go now, because we're about to start lunch." Someone knocked on the study door. "I'll be out in a second!" she called, without looking round. "But can you tell Ted that I called, and that I'll speak to him later?" she added to Lily.

Lily beamed back at her. "Tell him yourself!" she said.

"No—Lily—please—can you pass the message on? Please? I'll bring you back a special present if you do," she wheedled. She was not above bribery, it seemed.

"Tell him yourself!" Lily repeated.

"Hello," said a familiar voice from behind.

Victoire spun around with a shriek, dropping the mirror onto the sofa she was sat on. Ted was standing right where he shouldn't be: in the middle of the study of her Grandparents house in France. She gaped at him.

"Er...Merry Christmas?" he offered.

"You!" she said. "How did you get here?!"

He grinned. "Magic." She pulled a face. "I missed you," he said simply.

"I missed you, too," she replied at once.

"And because I was missing you so much, Gran had a right go at me for moping around with a face like a wet weekend—her words, not mine—and she said if it bothered me that much that you were gone, I should do something about it," he continued. "And I said that I couldn't exactly kidnap you and bring you back...and then I figured out that there was another option."

Victoire tried not to smile too much. "You mean you had this planned all holiday and you let me be all depressed about not being with you for Christmas?!"

"Not all holiday," he said. "More like over the last three days. It took a little while to organise. I wanted to be sure that Gran would be okay with me not being there—she's still going to The Burrow with Harry and Ginny and the rest—and then I had to find a Christmas Day Portkey—"

" _How_ did you do that?!" she asked.

"I have this really great contact at the Ministry," he said. "Uncle Percy. He...maybe bent some rules a little and got me something last minute."

"You got Uncle Percy to bend the rules?!"

"Me! I helped!" came a voice from the floor. Victoire exchanged glances with Ted, then picked up the mirror. "I told Uncle Percy that Teddy _really wanted_ to go and see you. Then I did the I-am-an-angel-and-you-should-do-whatever-I-want face that you taught me. Like this!" Lily made a face of such sweetness and light it was almost possible to believe that she wasn't the kid her older brothers had to join forces together to beat at Quidditch, pranking, and just about anything else.

Victoire laughed again. "Lily Luna Potter, when I get back, I will buy you the biggest, best Christmas present in the world," she said.

"Yay!" Lily said gleefully.

"What about me? Don't I get a present for coming here? I had to write to your parents for the address and get their permission and everything..." Ted said, quirking an eyebrow at her.

"Mum and Dad knew?" asked Victoire. "Ugh, I can't believe they've been teasing me about missing you so much. They're _awful_."

"Not awful enough to say no, though," he replied. "They gave permission for me to stay here until you go back in three days. So. What's my gift for sorting all this?" he asked smugly.

Victoire narrowed her eyes, but couldn't stop her smile this time. "Me," she said. "I'm your gift."

"Just as well, then, that all I want for Christmas is you."

"Ughhhhhh," groaned Victoire, but she went over and wrapped her arms around him anyway. "With moves like that, it's a good job you're so loveable."

Ted kissed her. "Do you think?"

"A _hem_! No snogging in front of minors! That's _me_!"

Victoire exchanged looks with Teddy. "Lily," she said firmly, readying her wand. "I truly appreciate all your hard work getting Ted to me. And I do mean what I say about buying you a present as a reward. But for now—"

"Goodbye!" she and Ted said in unison, as she flicked her wand at the mirror. Her cousin vanished.

"What now?" asked Ted, as the clock began to strike twelve.

"Well, technically, lunch is served," Victoire said, and his face fell. "But...I think we can afford to be a bit late..."

"Doing what?"

"Oh, you know," she said, managing to shrug and draw closer to him in one move. "Whatever you fancy, really."

"I know exactly who I fancy," he said, and he kissed her again. And again and again and again.

It was, she reflected later, definitely one of the better Christmas presents she'd ever received.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes:** with grateful thanks to diva-gonzo for the medical help. This has some blood and gore, if that's not your thing!

* * *

 **The Bells Ring Out Of Tune | Charlie & Tonks**

Red. Or green. Or maybe silver and gold if that was too cliché. It was Christmas, after all. Not that it felt like it, this year.

She paused, rolling her eyes at herself. It wasn't like she could be any more melodramatic at this stage. The castle was looking very festive, as it always did, decked out with holly and tinsel and a hundred Christmas trees. There was snow. She'd bought her gifts. She ate mince pies daily. She was just tired, that was all.

She'd been tired since Hallowe'en. Well. More like the second week in September, when the reality of the six NEWT subjects she was taking—and their attendant workloads—hit her. It was maybe a little bit worrying that she was barely one term into her sixth year and already walking around in a permanent state of exhaustion. But if she wanted to be an Auror...well, what choice did she have?

Nymphadora Tonks heaved a huge sigh, and pulled a strand of her limp, mouse-brown hair down, trying to will it to turn red or green or, indeed, any colour. As usual, nothing happened.

Before she could get too down, the door to Professor McGonagall's classroom banged open and her best friend exited the room, looking unbearably smug. "Don't tell me," she deadpanned. "You've managed not to fail your first piece of homework this term."

"Better," Charlie said, offering a hand to pull her to her feet. "I'm leaving."

"Sorry?" she asked. She wasn't really listening, her mind already on the three essays she had to hand in before the train left in three days. Charlie set off down the corridor and she followed him out of habit.

"I," he said, spinning around so he was walking backwards, "am leaving Hogwarts. At the end of next term."

The words, she thought, were going into her head but not her brain. "What?"

"I'm leaving school to take up the apprenticeship. At Easter. I have one more term, then _goodbye_ ," he repeated, letting out a whoop of laughter.

He was still walking backwards, and she was still facing him and thinking about her Charms essay. "You're leaving school," she said. And then, when his words finally hit her: " _You're leaving_?!" in a strange panic.

Charlie turned again so they were walking side by side. "Mmhmm," he said. "There's an opening for an apprentice at the Dragon Reserve I was telling you about in Romania," he said, "the one that advertised in the _Prophet_ last week? Well, I applied. And that was what I wanted to talk to McGonagall about—would she write me a reference. Kettleburn's already said yes, so that's a given. Assuming I get it—and she said she can't think of any reason I won't—the start date's in May, so I'll just have one more term in this place and be out by Easter."

"You can't," she said immediately. "You're only a sixth year."

"Yeah but you only have to stay in school til you've got your OWLs," he replied. "Then you can leave whenever."

"But you're doing NEWTs," she said, trying to quell the rising panic in her chest. She'd never considered herself a nerd or a bookworm or anyone, really, who particularly cared about school and the Way Things Should Be. But the idea of Charlie just upping and leaving when he shouldn't, when she still had another year before everything changed and she had to grow up and pretend like she knew what she was doing made her feel like she could collapse there and then in the deserted corridor.

"Yeah, but come on," he shrugged. "I'm never going to be academic, am I? I'm just about scraping along, and we're only in the first term of NEWTs. I'll probably get a good grade in Magical Creatures, if I manage not to bomb the written part of the exam, but for my other subjects...no matter how much work I do, I'll be lucky to pass. It's always been that way. I'm stupid."

"Don't be thick," she said, ignoring his raised eyebrow. "You're good at magic."

"Practical stuff," he replied. "I'm good with a wand, yeah. But I barely passed any of the written part of my OWLs and NEWTs are way, way harder. Write an essay on theoretical Transfiguration? No way. But the day-to-day stuff I'd need on a Reserve, to save me from getting burnt half to death by an irate Horntail? Probably, yeah."

"Wait, they have Horntails as the reserve in Holyhead?"

"Nah—this is the one in Romania. I told you."

"Romania?" she asked faintly.

"Yeah," he shrugged. "Probably the best place in the world to study dragons. And I'm going for the apprenticeship they're offering!"

"Oh..." she said, trying to force her face to do the thing it was supposed to. "Good luck, I guess."

Charlie stopped walking. "Wow," he said sarcastically. "Thank you for your support."

"What do you want me to say?" she replied, stopping as well.

"Anything, as long as you mean it."

"So you want to know what I really think?"

"Yeah, I want to know what you really think! It's not like you haven't known for years this is all I want to do with my life!"

Their voices were both rising, and she struggled to stop herself snarling at him. How dare he spring this on her? How dare he change everything? How dare he leave her all alone here for another two years, and think she'd just smile and wave him on his way like their years of friendship meant nothing to him?

"Well I'll tell you," she snapped. "I think leaving school barely a term into your NEWTs is the stupidest thing I ever heard. Yeah, you want to go chasing dragons now, but what about when you're thirty? Fifty? What if you change your mind and you've got no qualifications to fall back on? Yeah, you _can_ leave school after your OWLs, but in case you hadn't noticed, no one does, because then you have _nothing_."

"What, so I should stay in school and get a bunch of crap grades in subjects I don't care about so I can go on to become a paper-pusher in an office—"

"No!" she exploded. "But I don't see what the big rush is! Why d'you have to go now, and not at the end of next year like a normal person? Are you that desperate to get away?"

"The apprentice positions only open every five years," he said, "so it's apply now, or wait til I'm twenty two to stand a chance of getting in."

"And you might not," she said.

"What?"

"Well," she said, shrugging with fake-nonchalance. "You said yourself you have to get in. You've got an interview, right? You'll still have to impress them there. And I mean, it's not like you've actually had any experience working with dragons. And you've said yourself that your OWL grades aren't great. So..."

"You think I'm too stupid to get it?" His tone was harsh, but a quick glance at his expression told her she'd gone too far, but she couldn't seem to stop. Charlie had always struggled with exams and homework and writing; she'd known it for years, and been helping him for years. He knew what he meant to say, but the words never worked out on paper for him. He could do the spells, but unless she'd been there to coach him through endless essays and end of year exams, he'd never have passed half his subjects. And _this_ was how he repaid her: swanning off to Romania at a moment's notice, leaving her behind like she was just something to be discarded?

"Like I say," she repeated, her tone studiedly light. "Grades actually do count for _some_ thing. Maybe you're good at practical magic, wandwork and that. But a string of A's-at-best don't exactly show that to a prospective employer, do they?"

He gave her a look of total contempt, and she realised that that had been it: she knew this was a sensitive topic for him, and she'd never once said anything so mean, or even lightly teased him about it. It was the one thing that was always totally off limits. But in that instant, she was too angry at him, for reasons she could hardly begin to understand, to say anything.

"You're such a—"

It happened so quickly then: he was halfway through an insult, already spinning around, away from her, not looking where he was going, and he tripped into the suit of armour along the wall. He wheeled for a moment, arms flailing, and she stepped back with a shriek as both he and the suit of armour went down in an almighty crash.

The moment the noise stopped, and a heavy, terrifying silence fell, she knew that something bad had happened. This wasn't a slapstick, wounded-pride moment: Charlie was lying deathly still on the floor, and already she could see blood pooling around his head.

Her vision swam, and she dropped to her knees. _No_. She needed to keep it together. She _would_ keep it together. "Help!" she shouted, but no one came running. They'd taken a quiet route from Professor McGonagall's classroom, and most of the school were at dinner, Charlie having stayed late to talk to his head of house.

She kept shouting as loud as she could as she shoved the suit of armour out of the way, but she knew it was no use. No one would hear them.

"Charlie," she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. "Charlie, can you hear me? Charlie! Wake up!"

He didn't move, but she crouched down low and heard that he was breathing—slowly, but steadily. It wasn't all bad news. But she couldn't relax, already tearing her jumper off and pressing it as hard as she could against the cut on his head. The cut on his head from where the armour had hit seemed only the tiniest of wounds, but the amount of blood pouring out of it made her feel sick, and she tried to force the panic down.

Why didn't she know the right magic to sort this? It was just a simple injury, and she had no idea what spells to use. What use was she?!

"Get a grip," she snarled under her breath. She continued to press the jumper against the wound, but it was dark, and she couldn't see what difference, if any, she was making. Charlie must have been unconscious for only a minute, maybe less, but her fear was growing by the second. If she didn't get help, _now_ , it might be too late—but if she left him to run for help...well, she couldn't think what might happen. By the time she'd found someone—a teacher, Madam Pomfrey, _anyone_ —and they'd run back...

She could feel the blood seeping through the jumper, onto her hands, and she nearly screamed out loud in frustration and fear. She was alternating shouting for help and murmuring softly to Charlie to wake up, that it was okay, that she was here and she wasn't going to let anything happen to him, dammit, but there was no sign of anyone, and her soothing tones were doing no good.

One handed, she grappled for her wand, still pressing the jumper against his head with her free hand, and then used magic to siphon off the excess blood. She'd never felt so useless: here she was, a witch, capable of using magic, but she still had no idea how to fix him. Even if she conjured some bandages, she wouldn't know how to put them on so they helped, rather than making things worse.

And she needed to get help.

But she couldn't leave him.

If only there was some way, some magic she could use...

It came to her in a flash: the Patronus spell they had begun to work on in Defence Against the Dark Arts. Professor Mulholland had explained the theory, and she'd been practising. She could now—just about—conjure a fully formed corporeal one. And she knew that they could be used to send messages. If she tried, if she really, really tried...

It probably wouldn't work.

You needed to be calm and happy and not panicking that your friend would bleed out on the floor. You needed all your concentration, too, not dedicating most of your brain to pressing anything you could find against a head wound to stop it bleeding everywhere. You probably also needed not to have shouted yourself hoarse, screaming for help.

But after a few false starts, she managed it.

For a second, she was too shocked to speak, staring at the ghostly badger before her. Then she gathered her wits. "Professor McGonagall," she said clearly. "A student is seriously injured in the passageways behind the Transfiguration classrooms, about a hundred yards before the east stairway. Bring Madam Pomfrey." The badger seemed to be looking back at her. "Go!" she snapped, and it did.

She dropped her wand, using both hands to press as hard as she could against Charlie's head. He was still deathly pale, but he was also still breathing. He would, she realised, probably survive.

"You better bloody had," she muttered. "Just hold on, help is coming. Don't you _dare_ do anything else."

After that, things became a bit of a blur. Professors McGonagall, Snape and Dumbledore had hurtled down the corridor only a moment later, pushing her out of the way and performing some complex spellwork between them. By the time Professor Sprout had jogged up, Madam Pomfrey in tow, Charlie was beginning to stir, though Professors Snape and McGonagall were holding him still on the floor.

He'd been stretchered away, and Professor McGonagall had commanded Tonks to go to her office, where she'd had to explain the incident, again and again and again. The Professor had forced her to drink several very sugary cups of tea and eat about a hundred Ginger Newts, but once she was satisfied it was nothing but a very unfortunate accident, she'd headed back up to the hospital wing, to check on Charlie, then to write to his parents.

"Mr Weasley will be okay," she assured her, on her return. "Mostly thanks to your actions. You may take fifty points for Hufflepuff for your quick thinking, and for the truly outstanding Patronus Charm you produced."

"He'll be okay?" Tonks pressed. She couldn't feel glad about the latter part of the Professor's statement, not when she still felt such guilt over her argument with Charlie. If she hadn't distracted him, he might never have injured himself, and if something had happened to him...well, it would have been her fault.

"Madam Pomfrey says that you cannot visit tonight, because he needs to rest, but your actions no doubt saved his life, or at least saved him from serious injury," said the Professor. "You should return to your dormitory, and try to rest. I shall have the suit of armour removed at once, to prevent similar incidents, but I think we can all agree this was an accident that could have been much worse. I shall ask your teachers to excuse you from homework until the end of term. I think you could do with the break, although I shall expect you to attend lessons tomorrow."

"Will Charlie be allowed home?" she asked.

"Of course," said Professor McGonagall. "Madam Pomfrey anticipates keeping him in the Infirmary until the end of term purely as a precautionary measure. Even with magic, one cannot be too careful with head wounds. But as I say—thanks to your actions and barring any unforeseen complications at this stage, Mr Weasley should most definitely be well enough to travel home on the train as normal. Now, I must insist that you go back to the dormitories to rest. Would you like me, or perhaps a friend, to accompany you back?"

"No thank you," she said. "I think I'm okay."

"I'm glad to hear it," smiled the Professor. "And I should add: that Patronus Charm was truly magnificent, especially as Professor Mulholland informs me you have not yet studied more than the theory. You should be very proud. Professor Sprout says that you indicated to her that you would like to join the Auror Department on leaving school?"

Tonks nodded.

"With skills like that, I cannot see why you would not be a successful applicant." Tonks did her best not to gape. "Keep it up," nodded Professor McGonagall. "And—Merry Christmas, Miss Tonks. Please do pass on my best festive wishes to Mr Weasley—I've no doubt you will be seeing him tomorrow."

She smiled. "Merry Christmas, Professor."

"I wish I could've seen your Patronus," Charlie said. "Fred and George told me that everyone just stopped when it burst into the Great Hall."

"It probably gave everyone terrible indigestion," she shrugged, and he laughed, then winced. "Are you okay?" she asked at once.

"Bit of a headache, but Pomfrey says that's normal. She's keeping me in overnight again, but I'm allowed to get the train tomorrow," Charlie replied.

"Good," she said. "Since that'll probably be our last time."

Charlie tugged at the blankets awkwardly. "I'm not leaving til Easter..." he said.

"Yeah, but..." Tonks trailed off, and sighed. "I'm sorry for what I said...before. I didn't mean it."

"I don't remember the specifics," he said, "and you don't have to tell me. How can I be angry at you? You saved my life."

"You're my best friend," she said simply.

"And you're mine," he replied. "I know you don't think this apprenticeship in Romania thing is a good idea. I know you don't want things to change. And I wish I didn't have to leave you." Tonks looked away, staring out of the window at the snow. "And I'm gonna miss you. But I have to at least _try_ for this apprenticeship. If I don't get it, I don't get it. But—"

"You'll get it," she said, looking back at him. "This is your passion. It's what you were born to do. You'll get it, young or not. And, yeah, so you don't have an O for OWL Ancient Runes, but who cares? You know more about dragons than most people. That's all that counts. So you should go for the apprenticeship, because you're going to be great. Don't wait around here for something less."

"I'll miss you though," he added. "Seriously. You're my best friend."

"We're leaving school at the end of next year anyway, though. It would've happened then anway," she said. "I just...thought we'd have longer before we had to join the real world."

"We'll still see each other loads," Charlie promised.

Tonks sighed, pulling her legs up underneath her. "We won't, though," she said. "We'll become Christmas-card friends."

"We'll what?"

"We'll turn into the sort of grown-ups who send each other Christmas cards promising to meet up in the new year, then never do," she said. "My parents have loads. Every year, the same people write 'sorry not to have seen you this year! We've so much to catch up on, we really must arrange a meeting next year!' in a Christmas card. It's been going on ten, fifteen, twenty years, and they never see them. _That's_ what growing up is."

"We won't do that," he insisted. "We'll still see each other!"

"We won't!" she said. "We'll try to, but we'll both be busy and have grown up lives and grown up problems. Leaving school...that'll be it, whatever good intentions we have. What else can we do?"

"We can try," Charlie said.

"I don't know," she said. "I mean, I think we should just admit that this is it. This year...it just doesn't feel like Christmas, does it? There's something in the air that means it's...not. And I think it's because things are starting to change. Next year's our last year at school—this year, in your case. The year after that...who knows what we'll be doing. When we leave school, when we're old...Christmas will change. It just doesn't feel right. And no matter what we say about seeing each other, and all our other friends...it won't happen. We'll get old, and things won't be the same, and it'll be _rubbish_. If you leave—and I hope you get the job, I really do, because you deserve it and you'll love it—but if you get it, and you leave, that's the first step on the way to us being old, and things turning shit. So. Merry Christmas, eh?"

She attempted a laugh, but it came out almost as a sob, or it would have done, if she ever cried. She looked away, out of the window again, grateful for the fact that Charlie was bedbound and unable to come over to her and pat her on the back or offer some kind of false camaraderie.

"Miss Tonks," said a severe voice, and she jumped, whirling around. "If you think that you are old, you are sorely mistaken. And if you think that Christmas stops when you turn eighteen and leave school, you are mistaken again. Christmas is what you make it, and if you choose not to celebrate, well, that may be. But if you choose to be festive? Well. It will happen."

Madam Pomfrey was giving her such a look she shrank back. "The years I spent working Christmas Day at St Mungo's, on A and E? That was not festive, no. But you do what you can, and it all comes out in the end. And by the way—have you ever considered becoming a Healer?" She fixed her with such a beady look Tonks was tempted to get up and run, but she met her gaze.

"Oh, no," she said, "no offence, but being around ill people makes me feel awful. I can't do it."

"Well, at least you're honest," Madam Pomfrey said cheerfully. "Now, Mr Weasley. I believe it's time we reviewed your situation again."

Her check-up didn't take long; Charlie was recovering nicely, "And," Madam Pomfrey said to Tonks, "it's all thanks to your quick thinking. That really was a stunning Patronus you produced. It is a shame you aren't interested in Healing, but I'm sure the Aurors will be pleased to have you."

"That's what Professor McGonagall said," Tonks said, after she had left. "Which I suppose is a good sign, given that this time next year I'll be taking the entrance exams."

"You'll pass 'em," Charlie said confidently.

"Don't jinx it," she frowned, but she wasn't too upset.

"Weird, isn't it?" he added, and she looked questionably at him. "This is my last Christmas at Hogwarts. Next December, you'll be taking the entrance exams for the Aurors. Doesn't seem five minutes since we were first years..."

"I know," she said. "That's why it doesn't feel like Christmas, I think. We're too old."

"Maybe," he said. "Or maybe not. I meant what I said earlier. I'll come and see you ever year at Christmas, even when we're really old, like our parents. Maybe not for Christmas itself, but you saved my life. I know what happened to me was just an accident, but you did! So I should come back every year and thank you for that, at least."

"Even when we're old and grey?"

"Well, I'll have no hair then," he said solemnly. "It'll probably have been burnt off by a dragon. But yes. Even then."

She laughed. "It could be worse, then, I suppose."

"What could be worse?"

"Life."

"It could be a _lot_ worse," he agreed seriously.

"Things'll change next year," she said, "but yeah. They could be worse."

"Definitely. I mean, if I don't get the job after my interview...well, that would be worse."

"You'll get it," Tonks promised.

"And you'll get the Auror job," Charlie said. "But even if I do get the apprentice place, my mum might not be too keen on letting me go."

"She let Bill go all the way to Egypt," shrugged Tonks. "I'm sure she'll get over it. Eventually."

"Yeah," said Charlie. "By Christmas 2050."

"As long as it feels festive," she said.

"And you send me a Christmas card," he added.

"We'll manage it between us," she said, and he smiled.

The conversation turned, then, to mutual friends, homework, Christmas holiday plans, presents they still had to buy. Truth be told, she still didn't feel festive, and she was still exhausted. Charlie was still in the hospital wing, and until she saw him walk out of it on his own two feet, she wouldn't believe even the most able Healer about his recovery. Things were changing, more quickly than she would like. She was having to grow up, and at this time of year most of all, that wasn't a fun realisation.

But when she left the hospital wing, an hour or so later, she noticed, passing the mirror above the door, that her hair had turned a bright, bright Christmassy red, literally without her noticing. She might not feel festive, but Christmas was still happening around her, even when she didn't feel up for joining in. This year, of all years, she'd embrace that


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes:** Don't read this expecting anything other than pure, unadulterated schmaltz. But I make no apologies. It's (almost!) Christmas :)

* * *

 **There's A Magic In The Air | Arthur/Molly**

Money would have been tight anyway that year: his hours had been cut, and both Fred and George had started school in September, meaning there were two lots of school things to buy, and Charlie had been made Quidditch Captain too, and he wanted a new broom and, well, they couldn't exactly say no, he hadn't asked for the most expensive model and then—and _then_!—at the end of September, just as the bad weather started to set in for good, the roof collapsed.

Not the whole roof, just the part over the left side of the house, and mercifully no one was injured. That was the main thing, he told himself over and over: Molly, Ron and Ginny had all been in the house at the time and they could've been badly hurt, or something worse, something he couldn't even think about. And they hadn't been, and that _was_ the main thing. But. Although several builders could repair the roof with magic, he and Molly could not magic up money to pay them, and the incident wiped out the last of their savings.

His wonderful wife, showing a resilience that impressed him even after all their years of marriage, made do, and somehow managed to find enough money to buy a couple of small Christmas presents for each of their children, so they would at least have something new to open on the day itself, in addition to the now-expected jumper and homemade sweets. But for the first time ever, he would be unable to afford to buy his wife anything for Christmas.

It wasn't that she'd ever expected riches. And even if she had, he thought with something approaching irony, after their many years together, she'd have lowered her expectations by now. But he'd always managed to get her _something_ each year, and usually something frivolous and fun. There had been a couple of years when he'd had to make do with getting her a "practical" gift—the wool she'd need, to make everyone's jumpers, or the year he'd bought her a new winter cloak because hers just wouldn't take any more darning by magical or muggle methods—but he'd always managed at least one gift before now.

He'd confessed this to her one night in late October, feeling smaller than he'd ever felt before. He didn't have two spare Knuts to rub together, and so she shouldn't expect anything at all from him on Christmas Day. She'd dismissed his sorrow and shame at once—the important thing, she said, was that they had a roof over their heads; that they were warm and always had food on the table; that on Christmas Day, they'd have lots of delicious things to eat in addition to the usual fare, and, most of all, that the children would have presents. _That_ was what mattered, she said. She didn't need anything.

And he agreed with all of it—except her last point. But there wasn't anything he could do about that.

* * *

The very next day, as though someone with a rather unfair sense of humour had been listening to them talk the night before, something changed. Two things, really. Firstly, he arrived in work to find a note on his desk from someone in Payroll. It was a long, complicated missive, and truth be told he didn't understand most of their calculations (having spent most Arithmancy classes at school staring at the very pretty girl called Molly Prewett who sat two desks over from him) but the important bit was that somehow the admin team had been paying him two Galleons less than he was actually supposed to have been paid since May. His pay would be corrected from this month, it informed him, and—this made his heart leap—he would be given his backpay separately at end of November, if he could just initial the appropriate forms and return them.

He nearly knocked over his bottle of ink in his hurry to sign.

He would not tell Molly about the extra money, taking it out of their account at Gringotts before she had a chance to notice it was there. She hadn't expected it, so she wouldn't miss it when she was shopping for food and other necessities. And he would use it _all_ to buy her a Christmas gift. It was the least she deserved.

That lunchtime, out for a stroll along Diagon Alley, he happened to look into the window of the jewellers' and saw a pair of pearl earrings. They would, he reflected, be perfect for Molly—they were simple and understated, but still beautiful—and best of all, when he enquired as to the price, they were just about affordable with his extra money. The jeweller was a very nice woman who agreed at once to mark the earrings as sold, and for him to pay in instalments for them. It was agreed that he would make the final payment on Christmas Eve, just after his final payday on his higher salary, and she would keep them safe for him until then.

Arthur walked back to the office feeling happier than he had in a long time. It was as though the universe had decided to bestow an early Christmas present on him, the way everything had fallen into place in just a few hours. Best of all, for the first time since he had bought their wedding rings, he would be able to give his wife a brand new piece of jewellery as a gift. Even her engagement ring had been second-hand—although, as it had been her grandmother's, it held sentimental value—but here he was, able to give her something brand new, and a surprise to boot.

Now the only hard part would be keeping the secret until Christmas Day.

November passed in a flurry of strong winds and rain, but the roof held and the Weasleys had no other catastrophes befall them. The children grew excited as each day passed in December and the house became more and more Christmassy—every day, the air filled with the smell of delicious baking; a tree went up in the living room and garlands of holly decorated the house elsewhere. Ginny took it upon herself to make everyone a Christmas card, using so much glitter that for a while you couldn't touch anything anywhere in the house without coating yourself in sparkles, and the less said about Ron, the ghoul, and the paperchain incident the better.

But on the whole, it was one of the happiest Decembers he could remember, and Arthur often caught himself feeling like the luckiest man in the world just for getting to spend it with his family.

Excitement only rose when the elder boys arrived home from Hogwarts: it was not long now until the big day, and everyone was back, the house filled from morning to night with the sound of laughter and chatter. As though they'd managed to bring part of the Scottish climate home in their trunks, the day after they all went to pick them up at King's Cross, it started to snow. Ron and Ginny especially were almost apoplectic with excitement, and even Arthur had a thrill at just how festive and lovely the outside looked; the Christmas lights on the tree outside and the holly wreath on the door looking positively picture-perfect when dusted with the white stuff.

He should have known it was too good to last.

* * *

Three days before Christmas, he was just getting ready to leave for work when he heard a loud shriek and a crash from the kitchen. Dashing down the hallway, he arrived to see his poor wife looking very upset, and their wireless smashed to smithereens on the floor. "I slipped coming inside—my shoes were wet from the snow," Molly explained, once he had ascertained that she was okay. "I'm not hurt at all, but I'm afraid the wireless is beyond repair."

Arthur, who rather enjoyed tinkering with things and thus had grown rather skilled at mending broken items over the year, was forced to agree with her. "I can't fix that," he agreed, studying the many tiny pieces all over the floor. "But I'm sure there must be somewhere on Diagon Alley that can fix them—I'll take it along today." He set about gathering all the little pieces he could find into an old satchel.

Molly sighed. "I don't think it's likely to be repairable even with magic; it's too badly damaged," she said. "And I was so looking forward to listening to Celestina on Christmas Eve..."

"Well, I'll ask the people in the shop, but we might have to buy a new one," conceded Arthur. "But that wouldn't be a bad thing—you'd have a wireless in time for the concert tomorrow! A repair might take longer."

"It'll be expensive either way," Molly said, shaking her head. "I suppose there's no harm in asking, but I don't think it's likely we'll be able to afford a new one until into the spring, and that's if we manage to avoid any more catastrophes like the roof..." She attempted a laugh, clearly trying to sound light-hearted, but it didn't quite work.

Arthur felt the familiar twinge of guilt. She never complained about anything, never even hinted that things would be easier if only they had some more money, but he knew she thought it. And she gave up so much for the children, always sacrificing whatever she could if it would make them happy, but listening to the programmes on the wireless was one of the simple pleasures that she still could enjoy. Having music or Witches Hour on in the background whilst she did her knitting or cooked or cleaned was something she loved, and she especially loved listening to Celestina Warbeck's annual Christmas concert. He had consoled himself, when he'd realised she wouldn't be getting a present, with the knowledge that at least this Christmas tradition could remain – but now it seemed that even this was to be taken from her.

That settled it. "Leave it with me," he promised, picking up the final pieces from the floor and standing up. "I'll see if I can't rustle up something from somewhere. And you never know—maybe the broken parts will only cost a couple of knuts each!"

He could tell she didn't believe this either, but she didn't know about his secret savings, or the earrings. He could go back to the jewellers, get his money back, and use it to get the wireless fixed, or to buy a new one. Molly would still have the thing she loved—and in time for Christmas—and she'd not been expecting a gift, anyway. It would work. Sort of.

"Just don't sell your kidneys, or something daft like that," she chuckled, brushing off his clothes.

"I'm sure it won't come to that," he replied, whilst wondering about the practicalities of doing just that in three days. "Don't you worry."

"Of course I won't," Molly smiled. "Now, here's your lunch. You have a good day now—and I'll see you when you get home." He kissed her, picked up his work bag and the satchel containing all the parts of the wireless, and headed for the door.

* * *

Arthur couldn't remember ever seeing Nicholas Saint's Wireless Repairs and Sales shop on Diagon Alley before, although it was slightly tucked away, just before the turn into Knockturn Alley. He supposed it had always been there, though, because when he pushed open the door, he found a small workshop stuffed to the brim with radios and related accoutrements. It was cosy and warm inside, with the soft lighting giving a very festive glow to everything. As the door fell closed, the bell above it jingled merrily, and a cheerful voice called out "Just a moment!" from the back.

The owner of the voice appeared after a few moments: a huge old man, with a long white beard and a head full of white hair, wearing a simple shirt and a lively pair of red trousers, held up with matching red suspenders. "Hello," said the man. "How can I help you?"

Arthur blinked once, then came forwards. "I was wondering if you might advise me about the best course of action with my wireless," he said, placing the bag containing its remains on the counter. "It got smashed this morning, and I would like to get it mended—unless you think it's beyond repair, in which case I should like to buy a new one."

"Let's have a look," he said, drawing up a stool and sitting down before opening the bag. "Oh dear, oh dear," he sighed at once, studying its contents.

"That good, eh?" Arthur asked.

"I'm afraid so," nodded the man, not unsympathetically. "I can see traces of magical repair from earlier—yours?"

Arthur nodded. "I can make simple repairs, but I'm not a craftsman, so anything complicated is beyond me."

"You _could_ pay for this to be repaired," said the man, "but the cost of parts, plus labour, would be more than what you'd pay for an entirely new model."

"I thought as much," Arthur said. "In that case, what models do you have in at the moment?"

"All of them," the man replied. "We've quite a workshop here. What are you looking for in particular?"

"Nothing fancy, just a basic wireless," he said. "I'm not fussed about size or colour; I'll buy whatever's cheapest, no matter what it looks like, if you can give me something reasonably sturdy and long-lasting."

"I've got just the thing," said the man cheerfully, squeezing out from behind the counter and beckoning Arthur over to a shelf near the doorway. "The Donner-Blitzen," he said, pointing to a row of fairly hefty-looking wirelesses. "They're a German brand, one of the best. It comes in any colour you'd like as long as it's black; it's not the prettiest, but they are very reliable, and come with extra cushioning charms in case of incidents like that one," he pointed to the remains of Arthur's radio on the counter. "Does what you'd want from a radio, no fancy bells and whistles."

"Sounds good," Arthur said. "How much?"

The man named his price. It was one Sickle and three Knuts less than the amount Arthur had intended to spend on the earrings for his wife, and he winced. There was no way Molly was getting anything more exciting than a discounted box of chocolates this Christmas...

"Do you have anything cheaper?" he asked.

"Only the Vixen models," he said. "And they tend to be outdated and very unreliable—I'd see you back in here before the new year with a problem with it, I've no doubt, and truth be told the Donner-Blitzen would cost you far less in the long run. It comes with a ten year guarantee."

Arthur bit his lip. "Do you have any second-hand models?" he asked.

The man looked genuinely sorry as he shook his head. "I'm afraid not," he said. "I don't really tend to come across them—people tend to hang on to their wirelesses until they completely give up the ghost, then just buy a new one. A few, like yourself, will fettle them up a bit over the years, but mostly they go in the rubbish when they're done. The Donner-Blitzen is a very good model for the price, but it is still a lot of money. I understand."

"No, I'll take one," Arthur said, trying to inject some enthusiasm into his voice. The man was, after all, being very nice and fair, and not pushing for the sale at all. "I just need to withdraw some money; could you reserve one for me, and I'll pick it up after work tonight, about five? What time do you close?"

"Oh, we're working day and night here, at this time of year," chuckled the man. "But five should be fine. I'll see you then, Arthur."

Arthur thanked him and left, the bell over the door jingling merrily as he opened the door. He wrapped his cloak around himself more tightly against the cold, and sighed deeply. All along Diagon Alley, people were talking and laughing together in small groups, the Christmas spirit infecting everyone with joy and happiness—everyone, he thought grumpily, except himself.

It wasn't as bad as it could have been, he thought, trying to reason with himself. Molly would have her wireless, so she'd have a Christmas present, of sorts. She would know what it would be, and it would be yet another year when she received something from him that was more of a practical necessity than a luxurious gift, but it would be _something_. And maybe he could pick her up a box of the sugar mice she liked so much, too, just so she'd have something to open on Christmas Day.

A group of children pushed past him, all shrieking with glee, and his heart softened, remembering how he and Molly had stood in the kitchen window last night and watched all of their children having a snowball fight in the back garden. They had been so happy, and maybe that was all that mattered.

There was always next year. Or her birthday. He could get her something fancy then...

He stepped sideways to allow a group of elderly ladies to shuffle past, laden down with parcels and bags of shopping, then suddenly slowed to a halt outside the toy shop, a thought striking him. He was _sure_ he hadn't told the man in the wireless shop his name, and yet he'd addressed him as Arthur on his way out. And, come to think of it, it was very strange that he couldn't ever remember seeing the shop before—and he'd been coming to Diagon Alley for many, many years now. It was all very odd, he thought, staring off into space.

It happened very quickly, then: staring into the middle distance, lost in thought, he was jerked out of his reverie by a shout. The roof of Twilfit and Tattings was being retiled, but one of the workmen had slipped; he caught his balance but in doing so, knocked over a pile of tiles waiting to be attached to the roof. And in that moment, time seemed to slow down for Arthur: he saw the two children playing in the snow whilst their mother talked to a friend, oblivious, saw the tiles heading straight for them, and, quicker than he knew how, leapt across the road and pushed them out of the way.

The tiles missed him by a fraction of an inch, and they hit the ground with a heavy, metallic thud. There was half a second of total silence, then the children's mother screamed, and suddenly the whole Alley, or so it felt, came rushing over. The two children—boys, he now saw, the eldest probably only about five—were completely unharmed except for a grazed knee on the younger boy, and indeed seemed to have quite enjoyed the adventure of escaping death so easily. Their mother was in complete shock, gulping back sobs as she stammered and stuttered her thanks to Arthur, who brushed it off, embarrassed. About half the shoppers seemed to want to help her, bringing out handkerchiefs and her medicinal Firewhiskey ("For the fright, you know,"), whilst the other half wanted to shake Arthur's hand or applaud him in some way.

"No, honestly, it was nothing," he said, as he was patted on the back by about twelve people at once.

It was no use: the entire street was in uproar. "It's a Christmas miracle!" cried one old woman, whilst someone else declared him a hero. And Arthur wanted to say that no, it wasn't, that he was just in the right place at the right time, that he'd just done what anyone would have done, that he hadn't planned it, or even thought, but they seemed determined to heap praise on him. Maybe that was what people wanted at this time of year: a bit of drama that could be passed off as a festive miracle, proof of divine intervention, or just the good nature of people after all.

But still. The boys were safe and well—more than well, in fact, as the sweetshop owner had offered them as many free sweeties and chocolates as they wanted as a reward—their mother was going to be fine, and even the workmen were being comforted. No one blamed them; it was a complete accident that, in the end, hadn't hurt anyone.

Eventually, Arthur was able to extract himself from the madness, protesting that he really must get back off to work. One last handshake, one last thank you, one last pat on the back, and he was off, away from the crowd. As he headed on down the Alley, however, he looked up, and caught the eye of the man who ran the wireless shop. It was funny: he was standing well apart from everyone else, and his shop was much further down the street from where the accident had occurred. But it was the funniest thing: as their eyes met, Arthur had the strangest feeling that the man, whoever he was, had caused the accident, and forced Arthur to act.

He shook himself. "Don't be daft," he said aloud. "No one would do that. Maybe you need to check none of those tiles fell on your head..."

* * *

Given the excitement of the rest of the day, the afternoon dragged, dull and boring. At half four, Arthur packed up his things and flooed to Diagon Alley, calling first on the jeweller. She gave him back his money straight away, seeming disappointed, and not just to lose the sale. But he didn't want pity, or kindly glances, and so he all but snatched his Galleons from her hand, heading down to the opposite end of the shopping street, to Nicholas Saint's shop. There were, he was relieved to see, no more accidents along the way, and no one left from his lunchtime 'heroics' to spot him.

It was almost five when he let himself into the wireless shop, the bell once again jingling far more merrily than he felt the day deserved. The jolly fat man, still dressed in red, was humming to himself, back turned, something about having a merry little Christmas, which further cemented Arthur's bad mood. _His_ troubles may have been far away, but all of his own were very present, and all came back to one thing: money. It was so dispiriting.

Slowly, the man turned, smiling brightly on seeing who his customer was. Indeed, he appeared so happy that Arthur couldn't help giving an involuntary grin back. "Ah, it's the hero of the hour," said the man, chuckling merrily. Arthur coughed awkwardly, knowing that the tips of his ears would have gone red. It was the one tic he could never control.

"I wouldn't go that far..." he offered feebly.

"Oh, pish," said the man. "Now, about your radio."

"Yes," said Arthur, wanting to get the transaction over with as soon as possible. There was a funny smell in the shop—not unpleasant, as such, but strong and sort of cold—and he was suddenly filled with a desire to be home, as soon as possible. "I've got the payment."

"Ah," said the man, and his heart started to sink. "You know, it's the funniest thing. Your radio, the one you bought in this morning, you left it here. And this afternoon, I managed to fix it."

At first, Arthur thought he had heard wrong. The wireless had smashed into so many pieces that, even if there hadn't been several dozen little bits missing, _reparo_ and a hundred other charms just wouldn't have been enough magic to fix it. And yet, here it was being pushed towards him. "This is...the same one, right?" he asked, but even as he stared at it, he saw that it was. The scratches and dents all of his children had managed to mark it with, over the years, were there. The smears on the dial that Molly was never able to remove, much to her consternation, were back in place. It even, he noticed (feeling rather foolish, sniffing it in the middle of the shop) had a faint scent of _home_ attached to it that he was sure he'd never noticed before.

"This is your device," said the man, looking slightly smug. "I managed to sort it. It really didn't take that long, in the end."

"I—oh. Well. Thank you," stammered Arthur. "Thank you very much."

"It was no trouble!" beamed the man.

"Thank you. Thank you," he repeated. "Er. How much...?"

"How much...oh! Of course. Well. It'll be nothing," said the man.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing at all!" he said again. "You see," he added, suddenly giving him an almost Dumbledore-esque look over his glasses, "I saw what happened."

"To...to the radio?"

"No, you daft bugger," said the man. "Earlier, on the Alley. You're a hero! You saved—"

"Oh, not that again!" Arthur exclaimed. "That was an accident! I mean, I only did what anyone would have done! I'm no-one special; I'm not a hero! I just wanted to help, and I was _lucky_."

"Be that as it may," said the man, "two children owe you their lives. You have children?"

"Seven," he replied, throat suddenly dry.

"Well, then," said the man, and he didn't, really, have to say anything else.

"At least let me pay you for your labour," said Arthur. "And there must've been some parts you had to get, and—"

"Mr Weasley," said the man. "I do not think one has to be a world class Divination expert to know that there is something else you would much rather spend your hard earned cash on." Arthur thought of Molly's face as she opened the earrings on Christmas Day. He could picture it almost perfectly.

He opened his mouth then closed it again.

"No?" said the man in red.

"But..." Arthur said. He really, really, _really_ wanted to give Molly her fixed wireless _and_ the earrings. It wasn't like he was stealing, or taking for his own gain...but it wasn't right to just accept it all for free...

"Do I have to hex you to get you out of my shop?" said the man fiercely, but there was a twinkle in his eye.

"No!" said Arthur, picking up the radio, "but you must let me pay—"

"No!"

"It's not right that—"

" _No_!"

"Please, I have the Galleons, look—"

"Go and buy your wife her present," said the man. "Spend your money on that."

"I—"

"Go!"

"Look," said Arthur desperately. "There must be _something_ I can do to pay you."

The man paused, and Arthur felt triumphant. He didn't really begrudge paying the money for the wireless—he had, after all, done a fantastic job repairing the wireless. It was the one he had bought in, but it was in better condition, almost, than when he and Molly had first purchased it a decade and a half ago. "Well...there is one thing you could do," he said.

"Name it," Arthur said fervently.

"On Christmas Eve," said the man, "make sure you leave out some mince pies, and a sherry. And a carrot wouldn't go amiss, either."

"A...a carrot?"

"The sherry's the important part," the man said. "I do love a sherry."

"I..."

"Look, man, the shop'll be closed if you don't get down there soon!" the man in red said, pushing Arthur towards the door. "Go and get your wife her gift. And have a Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas to you, too," Arthur said, feeling totally bemused. "And thank you! Thank you so much!"

"Go!" called the man, as he stepped out onto Diagon Alley. Arthur waved vaguely, tucking the wireless securely into his bag, then started to run towards the jewellery shop. If he could just get there before it closed...

"Don't forget the sherry!" followed him down the street, and Arthur vowed that he wouldn't.

But never mind sherry, he thought, as he reached the jewellers which had decided to stay open an extra half-hour today _and_ hadn't sold the earrings, maybe Perkins had put some _Felix Felicis_ in his afternoon tea. It was the only explanation...

"Would you like them gift wrapped?" said the jeweller.

"Yes, please," said Arthur, proudly laying out the Galleons on the counter.

"Merry Christmas!" said the jeweller, once she had finished.

"And to you," said Arthur. "And have a very happy new year!" He hid the earrings, beautifully packaged, inside his cloak pocket, then apparated home.

He landed in a snowdrift almost knee deep and shivered involuntarily. London had been cold, but there had been no snow. His own garden, however, looked like a Christmas card. Which was funny, he realised, coming to a sudden halt, halfway up the garden path, because the funny smell in the shop, the one he couldn't place—it had been the smell of freshly fallen snow.

"Arthur? Is that you?" He hurried inside at the sound of his wife calling him. "Hello dear," she said, fussing with him immediately. "How was your day?"

Gently, he brushed her aside, placing the bag containing the wireless on the table. "Look!" he said, and Molly gasped, reaching inside.

"You never... _how_?!" she asked, delighted. "It looks...better than new!"

"I know," laughed Arthur, "incredible isn't it?"

"I...but...wow!" said Molly, lifting it carefully and placing it securely back on the shelf, adding a few cushioning charms around it for good measure. "But how much did it cost?" she asked, sound slightly worried, once that had been done.

"Don't worry about it," Arthur said cheerfully. "It's all sorted."

"But how?" she pressed. "We don't have the money for—"

"Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy! Only two sleeps 'til Christmas Day! Are you excited Daddy? I'm so excited!" Arthur always felt overjoyed to see his only daughter, but today he felt particularly happy as she leapt into his arms, gabbling away. Her entrance precipitated the rest of his children clattering downstairs, distracting their mother, and letting him off the hook—for now.

* * *

"...so then, he insisted that the only payment he would take was putting out sherry and mince pies on Christmas Eve! What do you think of that?!"

Molly raised an eyebrow. "Well, I had suspected Bill of taking the sherry," she said. "Although he swears he didn't..."

"Strange, isn't it?" Arthur commented, carefully removing his new jumper.

His wife, already tucked up in bed, hummed. "It is," she said, "but I'm glad you spent your work bonus on these earrings. They are so beautiful. And I'm the luckiest woman in the world to have them _and_ a radio _and_ you!"

"You deserve them," he said simply. When she'd unwrapped them, she'd looked exactly as he'd imagined.

She brushed off his remark, but he could tell she was pleased. "What did you say the name of the wireless shop was, again?" she asked.

"Nicholas Saint's," said Arthur. "And it's funny, because I don't remember it being there before, do you?"

"No, I don't," Molly replied thoughtfully. "How odd. Huh."

"What?"

"Well...maybe...it's just magic. It _is_ Christmas, after all," she said.

"Yes, but—"

" _Arthur_."

"What?" he asked, startled by her firm tone.

"Look what I'm wearing."

He looked. "The earrings? You like them, then?"

"Of course I like them, you plonker," she laughed. "But guess what _else_ I'm wearing."

He couldn't.

"Nothing!" she said triumphantly, and he finished undressing in a hurry, all thoughts of Nicholas Saint, and the jolly man in red, pushed from his mind.


	11. Chapter 11

**Merry and Bright | Harry/Ginny**

title | ffnet | AO3

Harry Potter had had some tough times over Christmas.

There had been the years he'd live with the Dursleys, spent in a house that was decked out in the most tasteful Christmas decorations—except for his cupboard—and filled with presents—but not for him. The years he'd spent at Hogwarts or the Weasleys' in his school years—filled with love, it was true, but also with the constant spectre of war and Voldemort fear. The year he'd spent on the run, his Christmas Day in a tent, barely conscious, with just Hermione for company and nothing to eat except a packet of stale mince pies they'd taken from an all-night muggle supermarket.

Then, the years after the war. The first few Christmases, as sad as they were joyful with all the losses and deaths hanging over them. The years he'd had to work on Christmas Day, spent being bored on call in the office, or stuck on watch somewhere bleak and lonely with only sheep and snow and a radio that only seemed to play a bizarre selection of Celestina Warbeck and George Michael tracks.

But nothing, it seemed, would be as tough as this year. He thought about the task that was (literally) facing him, and turned to his wife, who was wearing a matching expression of grim resignation. "I know," she said, nodding.

"We've no one to blame but ourselves," he tried, and she glared.

"Oh, don't come that with me, Potter!" she snapped. "You're not the one who—" Upstairs, a floorboard creaked. Quicker than lightening, they both grabbed their wands, casting spells around the room to hide its contents, and peered around the door with all the subtlety of two highly trained Aurors.

"I think," he whispered after a long moment in which nothing at all happened, "that the cost is clear."

His wife was less quick to relax, but after several more moments where nothing continued to happen, she was forced to relax, too. "It was probably just the cat," she agreed.

They turned back to the room, quickly spelling it back to its true form. "Nice reactions," he said, as the furniture zoomed back to its original place.

"Thanks," she nodded.

"There's still space for you on the Aurors if you want it," he offered. "Some of the kids we've got these days...I swear, they get younger every year. And can't tell their arse from their elbow, either, let alone a Dark Wizard from a decoy from the Wheezes'."

"Nah," Ginny said. "I'll pass. Someone's gotta do the important jobs around here."

"Quidditch reporting?"

"No. You know what."

They both surveyed the task in front of them. "I do," Harry agreed, grabbing a roll of wrapping paper and holding it in front of him like a knight's spear. "Into battle once more?"

"I'll see you on the other side," Ginny said, wielding the Spellotape grimly.

"Do you think we spoil them?" Harry asked after a moment, eyeing the enormous pile of presents.

"Normally? No," Ginny said. "I think they're incredible children who are loved and lucky to have gifts and other nice things, but who behave well enough to deserve it, and understand that not all children are as fortunate as them, though no fault of their own. However," she added firmly, affixing a gift tag on a neatly wrapped box with probably more force than was necessary, "having spent the day looking after all three of them when they've reached peak levels of pre-Christmas excitement _and_ having to then wrap all these _bloody_ toys...yes, they are the most spoilt children in the world. Next year, they can have a pair of socks each and think themselves lucky!"

"Why not go the whole hog and just leave them some coal in a stocking?" Harry asked, wrestling with a copy of _The Wriggly Book of Creepy-Crawlies_ that seemed determined to jump out of his hands.

"Because," Ginny said, holding the book down with her knees so he could cover it in wrapping paper, "it'll be muggins here who has to clean up the mess _that_ causes."

"Good point," Harry nodded. "And thanks."

"Besides, didn't the Dursleys send you a lump of coal one year?" Ginny asked lightly.

"No coal, but there was the year I received a coat-hanger," Harry replied in the same tone. His wife laughed, then caught his eye.

"You're not serious," she said.

"Erm...yes," he replied carefully, awaiting the explosion. Ginny had many fine qualities, but an ability to keep silent over his treatment by his mother's relatives was not one of them.

"Hmm," she said shortly, cutting some ribbon with a very audible snip.

"...that's it?" he replied.

"Well," she said, "if I start on them, I'll end up shouting. And if I shout, I'll wake the kids, who I've only just got off to sleep, and frankly, I can't deal with that right now. Besides, I think a slower revenge might be a good idea. For example, we can give them a coat-hanger."

"I don't even know if they're still at the same address..."

"I will personally hand-deliver it. And not through their letterbox, if you catch my drift," Ginny said.

"James, or Al?" asked Harry, holding up a pair of novelty socks.

"Al," said Ginny. "And don't think I won't!"

"I would never dream of underestimating you," Harry said at once, then laughed.

"What?"

"I just remembered...we were talking about spoilt kids, but I remember Dudley at Christmas or on birthdays. He used to count the number of presents he got, and if each year, it wasn't greater than the last year, he'd have a massive temper tantrum," he explained. Ginny stared.

"You're not serious."

"I am!"

"You're making that up," she insisted. "No child is actually _that_ vile."

"He was," Harry nodded. "Like I say—our kids are _definitely_ not spoilt."

"I can't believe you would equate them to _that_ ," Ginny said. "It's such a false compliment. Like saying 'oh, they're really nice compared to say...Draco Malfoy'."

"Well, they are!" Harry said, and she pulled a face. "Okay, I take your point. I don't know. Our kids always had loads of what we didn't, growing up—money, in your case, and love in mine. Your parents couldn't afford fancy presents, and the Dursleys didn't like me enough to bother. So obviously we both want to buy them all kinds of expensive things at Christmastime, I suppose in part to make up for that; it's only natural. But I've always got Dudley at the back of my mind. I would never want to turn them into that..."

"Look at you, getting all psychoanalytical," Ginny said. "I agree, though. Although," and here she broke off to laugh slightly, causing him to look up from the present he was wrapping, "I don't think we have to worry about them too much. They're quite well-adjusted, all things considered."

"Oh?"

"Yes," she said, giggling again. "Merlin—I shouldn't laugh, this is quite morbid really. But today...well. Okay, so, you know how we got Teddy an advent calendar, so he'd have one to open when he's at ours, in addition to the one he's got at his Gran's?"

"Yes..." Harry said slowly.

"Well, today I overheard Lily asking James why is it that Teddy has _two_ advent calendars, and they only have one each," she continued. "And before I could say anything, James goes, 'Teddy gets two because his Mummy and Daddy are dead'."

"Which, if you think about it, is _technically_ true," said Harry.

"Then Al goes, 'yes, but _Daddy's_ Mummy and Daddy are dead, so why doesn't _he_ get two advent calendars?'," Ginny continued. "And so Lily said that maybe the big bad man who was mean to Daddy took away _all_ his advent calendars, and that's why Mummy and Daddy don't like him."

"Oh dear," sighed Harry.

"So I think we need to have another conversation about...you know...things," Ginny said, "but maybe wait til after Christmas for that one."

"The fact that Riddle used to do more than steal advent calendars—though he probably did that too, he was a bit of a git—might put a bit of a damper on things," agreed Harry.

"That, and I was thinking that anything you say at this point that isn't directly related to Christmas is going to go in one ear and out the other," Ginny said drily. "You forget how completely exciting and all-consuming Christmas is at that age..."

"At that age?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at Ginny, who was wearing pyjamas with reindeers on, underneath a novelty Christmas jumper, holly wreath earrings and had her hair tied back with tinsel.

"I," she declared, "am a festive vision."

"As always..."

"Oi!"

"Mmm..." Harry said, his mind drifting.

"Look," Ginny said at once, "we've managed, so far, to tell the kids what happened during the war in a suitable way. They know the main events, broadly, and why it was bad, but they don't know anything...graphic, or horribly traumatic. We couldn't _not_ tell them—every time we go out in public, there's someone who wants to shake your hand for being the Chosen One—so it's not like we could hide it without becoming total hermits. But they're not upset or scared by what they know, because we've always told them what's age-appropriate. So, at some point, we'll have to explain what happened to Remus and Tonks, and to your parents. But we'll do it at a suitable time, in a way that won't scare them, but also isn't a lie, and it will be fine."

"Do you think?"

"I _know_ ," Ginny said firmly, "because that's what we've always done."

There was a pause as he watched her deftly wrap two gifts. "You always know just what to say," he said eventually, reaching over to squeeze her hand.

Ginny smiled. "Nah," she said. "I'm just making it up as I go along, really."

"That's parenting, eh?" said Harry. "So. In the New Year. We need to have a talk about...death, and the war. In a way that won't traumatise our children forever, but also not confuse them. Bugger. Do you think there's a book on this sort of thing?"

"Most likely," Ginny said. "We'll ask Hermione. Speaking of—have you seen the news today?"

"No, why?"

"Rita Skeeter's got a new book out in the spring," she replied. "Not, I think, entirely about you, but I think you have more than a small walk-on part. But worry not! I've been thinking about bulk-buying loo roll, you see, and..."

Harry laughed, then sighed. "I suppose Rita's—"

"Rubbish," supplied Ginny.

"Yes, that—it's another thing we'll have to talk to the kids about, eventually," he said.

" _Eventually_ ," Ginny stressed. "Look. At the moment, they're the happiest kids in the world because it's three days until Christmas and, as everyone knows, Christmas is the best thing in the world ever. We really, really don't need to worry about talking to them right at this moment, so we've plenty of time to think about what to say and when, okay?"

"Okay."

"You know what we do have to worry about, though?"

"Present wrapping?" Harry said ruefully.

"I'm afraid so," agreed Ginny. "You know what isn't upsetting them now, thank God? The war, and everything we had to go through. You know what _would_ devastate them? Everything being in a gift bag and not getting to rip open the paper."

"It is half the fun," Harry said, as she stood up. "Oi—where are you going?"

"You keep at it," she said. "I'll be right back. But I think we need reinforcements!"

"Ron and Hermione? Merlin, no," Harry said. "I mean, they're great, they really are. But I don't fancy wrapping presents with a set square and Spellotape measured to the millimetre like Hermione would insist on. Come to think of it, what does Ron do with her presents?"

"Gift bags," Ginny said. "It's a Weasley trait. And obviously not them, no. I'm thinking reinforcements more along the lines of some wine and your favourite of Mum's Celestina records. Oh—actually," she added, as he pulled a terrible face. "Can you pop out to the cornershop and get some more chocolates?"

"Why?"

"Because obviously I am going to eat all the remaining advent calendar chocolate whilst we wrap, and we'll have to replace it with something," she said. "I'm not _that_ awful of a parent."

"Alright, alright," Harry said, getting to his feet. "What should I get?"

"Nothing too fancy, we don't want to spoil them!" Ginny called. He snorted. "But hurry, before it snows!"

"It's going to snow?" Harry asked, surprised. "The forecast didn't say."

"No," said Ginny, sticking her head back around the door. "But I remain optimistic that we're going to have a perfect white Christmas."

"Alright Bing," Harry said. "I'll hurry."

"If you do, I'll stick a bow on something else and let you unwrap it!" she called.

Harry snorted. Maybe it wouldn't be such a tough Christmas, after all.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes:** I can't believe this is the last one! I honestly didn't know whether I would get all of these done in time for Christmas, or if I'd find time to post them, or a million other things, and I feel so, so proud of me for finishing! I am also completely overwhelmed by all the incredibly kind reviews I've had on the various stories; and I do hope that you have enjoyed them whether or not you have reviewed. I'd like to take this opportunity to wish everyone who has been kind enough to read and review my fics in 2015 the Merriest of Christmases and Happiest of New Years, wherever you are in the world. Much love, Anna xxx

(PS the title is from Darlene Love's 'All Alone on Christmas', and this is dedicated to all those at work on Christmas Day. You guys rock xxx)

* * *

 **Nobody Ought To Be Alone On Christmas**

Harry Potter, seasoned Auror, crawled along the floor as silently as he could, hoping against hope that he could remain hidden so his adversary wouldn't see him. He was gripping his wand tightly with one hand, and had the other on the new, prototype weapon in his back pocket. It was maybe an unorthodox move, to try to use an additional weapon, especially one that hadn't been fully tested, when he was alone, but he knew his foe well. He, too, was skilled and talented, and Harry would need all his wits about him if he was to bring him down alone.

The Auror Department was almost entirely unmanned, it being Christmas Day. But he had been left behind to hold the fort—it had only been a year and a half since he'd joined the Department, and so he was just Senior enough to be left alone, in charge for the day (as, then, no attack had been expected). The older Aurors, however, had families and children, and so were given the day off. He knew, eventually, that his time would come: he would be the one sitting at home with his children, whilst some more junior underling slaved away on Christmas.

He was momentarily distracted by the thought of Ginny holding a baby— _their_ baby—or with some small, red-haired children sat around a tree, opening presents... Children were something they talked about together—not something they wanted right now (the opposite, in fact)—but someday. The fact that now he lived in a world where he could think of somedays filled his heart with joy, and—

A sudden noise jolted him out of his reverie, and he cursed himself silently. He needed to keep focused. He was an Auror on a mission, Christmas Day or no. His prey had given himself away, now, though: Harry knew where he was.

He readied himself for his attack, moving silently into position. He checked his wand, and the secret weapon. He was ready. One more quick thought of Ginny—for luck—and then "GOTCHA, YOU FESTIVE—"

His assailant let loose with a war-cry, but it was too late, Harry was firing hundreds and hundreds of tiny baubles out of the Wheezes' as-yet-unpatented Bauble Blaster he'd kept hidden as his secret weapon, and using his wand to shoot a thick fog of glitter, hoping to render his attacker sightless. But the attacker was fighting back, too, using his own wand to shoot hundreds of strands of tinsel at Harry, which were winding their way around his feet and ankles remarkably like Devil's Snare, and he had to jump up and down, madly trying to untangle himself from them.

"THINK YOU'D USE MY OWN WEAPONS AGAINST ME, POTTER?" bellowed his enemy. "I'll get you now!" And he leapt onto a desk, pointing his wand into the air and firing off hundreds and hundreds of jingling bells.

"NOOOO!" cried Harry "Not the sleigh bells! Mercy, mercy!"

He cowered behind an upturned desk, holding his hands up in surrender. "Please, have mercy, mister! It's _Christmas_!"

"Very well," acknowledge the other man. "As it is Christmas, I shall grant you your wish." He lowered his wand, and Harry looked contrite.

"Your kindness and festive spirit is appreciated," he said. "You sucker!" he added gleefully, pointing his wand at the tinsel which wrapped itself around its own creator so tightly he was put in a sort of full-body-bind, with only his head and face free from the sparkly stuff, and he toppled onto the floor.

"Oh bugger," said Ron. "I suppose you win this round."

"I am the champion!" sang Harry, feeling only somewhat disappointed when his best friend didn't join in with the next line.

"If you get me out of this, I'll help you set the office straight," he said, and Harry obliged. They had made a huge mess of the entire floor—desks were upturned, piles of paper had fallen to the floor, and there was a huge mass of tinsel, baubles and sleigh bells all over the place—but it took the two of them about ten seconds to right everything using magic.

"If we'd known those sorts of spells a few years ago, our dorm would've been the neatest at Hogwarts," Harry commented. Then he caught Ron's eye. "Nah," they said together, and laughed.

"By the way, the Bauble Blaster worked really well," he added. "Good job on that one."

"Cheers," Ron grinned. "I still need to iron out a few creases in it—some of the prototypes have a tendency of exploding when you don't want them to, you know? Bit of a bugger, coming in to the stockroom to find baubles everywhere, and we can't sell 'em like that—health and safety hazard, isn't it? But we're hoping by next Christmas to have ironed those kinks out."

"I'm sure you will," Harry said confidently.

"And that'll be it—my first Wheeze! My own invention, on the shelves!" Ron grinned, straightening up the pictures of Hermione on his desk.

They slumped back down in their chairs, both putting their feet up on their respective desks. "I'll drink to that—or I would if we were allowed to, on duty. Want a mince pie instead?" Harry offered, holding the plate out.

"No thanks," Ron said. Harry stared, and Ron patted his stomach. "Saving myself for later, aren't I?" he explained. "Mum'll be cooking up a feast all day; gotta work up an appetite, you know. Only six more hours to go, and there's only so many times we can play the festive-attack game! It's my turn to win, next time, by the way."

"We're halfway there!" Harry said cheerfully, glancing at Fabian Prewett's battered old watch. The shift had started at six in the morning and would end twelve hours later, when another unlucky Auror would come to relieve them. They, at least, would get Christmas dinner with the Weasleys, so it wasn't all bad.

"We are," Ron agreed. "I wonder if Hermione's going to get _two_ Christmas dinners today...lucky sod."

"She's at her parents' until this afternoon, isn't she?" Harry asked.

"Yeah; she'll come to Mum and Dad's when we finish, so she can do food and presents with us," Ron said. "She's stopping over, then we're both going back to her parents' tomorrow for Boxing Day. You and Ginny could come too, if you'd like."

"I'll ask Gin, see what she wants to do," Harry said. "She didn't say she had plans or anything this morning, so we could join you, if you want us."

"You saw her this morning?" Ron asked.

"Yeah, she came round really early to give me my present before I left for work," Harry replied, starting to smile at the recollection.

"What was it?"

"Er...novelty Christmas boxers," Harry said quickly. "You probably don't want to see them."

"Correct," said Ron, even more quickly. "You're my best mate, and all, but..."

"Yeah," Harry said.

They caught each other's eye and burst out laughing.

"Oh well," Harry said, once they'd stopped. He glanced at his watch again, and sighed. "Guess that killed another ten minutes, eh?"

"Could be worse," Ron said. "Let's face it, we're bored at work because there's nothing to do. If we weren't bored, it'd be because there's a madman on the loose, or some Death Eater resurgence or something. And I'd much rather spend my Christmas Day bored than dealing with _that_."

"You can go home, you know," Harry said.

Ron looked at him. "That is the eighteenth time you've said this since this morning. _No_."

"It's only me who drew the short straw," Harry continued. " _I'm_ the one on the books for Christmas Day, not you. You could be home, with your family."

"They're your family too!" Ron said, as he had eighteen times before. "They'll wait for us, and we'll do Christmas tonight. It's not even that long to wait, anymore. It's cool."

And Harry thought, for the eighteenth time that day, and millionth time in the nine years he'd known him, how lucky he was to have Ron. Ron, who was not supposed to be in work today, who'd got lucky and not pulled the Christmas Day shift with the Aurors, who'd come in anyway—unpaid—to keep Harry company, because he could, even though he'd spent the past three days helping George in the shop. Ron, who'd stayed with him for Christmas in their first year at Hogwarts, having known him four months. Ron, who'd given him family, and love, and best-friendship, and so much more.

"You can go, though," he said anyway. "If you want to. You don't have to stay with me."

"Nah," Ron said easily, gesturing for Harry to pass him the plate of mince pies. "You're stuck with me."

"How awful," Harry grinned, and reached over to cheers his mince pie against Ron's. "Merry Christmas, eh?"

"Merry Christmas," said Ron. "And may we have many, many more!"


End file.
